


Sun And Rain Makes A Rainbow

by LemonCrumpet



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal, Angst, Drama, Dubious Content, EngMano, F/M, Fluff, Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, NSFW, Penetrative Sex, Porn With Plot, Religious Themes, RomaEng - Freeform, Romance, Slice of Life, Smut, Violence, explicit content, one-sided, various additional characters, various side pairings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2018-12-25 11:57:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 135,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonCrumpet/pseuds/LemonCrumpet
Summary: After a period of isolation after WW2 Romano goes to stay with England for two weeks to complete a trade report while Veneziano is on vacation. The southern Italian comes to realise that the rainy nation may not be as scary as he once thought, and the two lonely countries might just be more perfect for each other than he'd like to admit.However, the road to love is paved with obstacles, and seducing a crazy former pirate turned perverted gentleman isn't as simple as it sounds. Portugal is determined to ruin things before they even start, and Germany is too preoccupied with fucking everything up to keep the rest of the world in check. France juggles with his own one-sided feelings while trying to keep himself from killing his best friend, and Veneziano isn't the innocent, oblivious nation everyone believes him to be.Alliances are forged as the war for love begins, and bonds of friendship are put to the test as Romano struggles to come to terms with his developing feelings. Poor England just wants a cup of tea while he waits for the world to start making sense again before he loses the last remaining shreds of his sanity, but hey, who ever said love is easy?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Revised version of the same story on the Hetalia kinkmeme rewritten and de-anon'd by the original author (me). In the end the original fill just wasn't fitting the prompt, and somehow ended up turning into a completely different story, so I'll be posting it on here from now on instead.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: None, except Romano's potty-mouth. 
> 
> EngMano is my guilty pleasure, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it! With that said, on to the story!

The downpour continues to rage on outside. There’s no signs of it stopping anytime soon, and the deafening sound of the battering rain echoes through the entire airport. It’s so loud even the noise of the bustling terminal downstairs can't drown it out. He absentmindedly swirls the last of his coffee around in the bottom of the cardboard takeout cup in his hand wondering what’s taking the island nation so long. England was supposed to be here over two hours ago to pick him up. If he’d known the blond was going to be so late he would have taken the Englishman up on his offer to pay for a taxi.

His head is spinning from the oppressive weather, and there’s a persistent ache in the back of his neck. That’s not really surprising though given that he’d spent three hours stuck in the stuffy passenger cabin of a fully-boarded British Airways flight. Tired olive-green eyes glance up from the screen of his phone to the exhausted reflection looking back at him from the fogged up glass. He rubs his eyes, and stifles a yawn. Still no response from the Tomato-Bastard either. What was the point in that idiot telling him to text as soon as he landed if the bastard wasn't even going to bother checking his phone? He lays his head against the cool leather back of the sofa closing his eyes to block out the harsh glare from the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. 

He’d felt fine when he left Sicily earlier that afternoon. A bit stressed from almost missing his flight due to heavy the tourist traffic flooding the island, but otherwise he had felt fine. Being stuck in an aisle seat on the plane had sucked. It was his own fault though. He’d totally forgotten to book his ticket until yesterday despite having finalised the entire trip over the phone with the blond nation over two weeks ago. It was a bit disappointing not being able to see out of the window. He hadn't been on a plane in a really, really long time, and he’d been kind of excited by the thought of seeing how different his beloved island looked from so high up. There wasn't really anything to look at once the plane had reached cruising altitude though. He’d ask the stewardess as she passed by just how high they actually were, and then wished he hadn't. 

The kid seated behind him had been loud too. Really loud, and annoying. Constantly kicking the back of the Italian’s seat...It’s nice to know the boy had enjoyed his family holiday, but that didn’t mean that everyone on the entire plane wanted to know about it. On the other hand at least the tourists are enjoying themselves. The fancy resorts are doing their job. That’s always a good sign. Especially with the current economic turmoil. He might not be actively involved with the running of the country at the moment, but he’s still a nation he worries over shit too.

At some point during the flight he must have dozed off because a sudden jolt had startled him awake. He’d leant forward to take a look out of the little window again, but couldn't figure out what had rocked the plane. He caught sight of the heavy dark clouds headed straight for them on the horizon, and watched as the wall of cloud swiftly engulfed the plane. For a minute he wasn't sure which was worse; the rough weather outside, or the wrenching of his nervous stomach as the plane hit another patch of turbulence. It was so dark inside the cabin that the automatic lights had flickered on, and the plane became eerily quiet as nervous passengers stared out the windows at the pitch black sky. The pretty blond stewardess he’d been flirting with earlier had appeared at some point to ask if he was okay, but despite her trying to reassure him he didn't believe the young woman when she said there was nothing to worry about.

Just remembering it makes him feel sick all over again, damn it.

The landing had been rough thanks to the plane hitting some more rough weather as they descended. The wheels had skidded on the wet landing strip, and the sudden force of hitting the ground at speed had lunged the brunet forward in his seat. Maybe that’s why his neck hurts so much, because he got fucking whiplash from the rough landing, and not from falling asleep at a weird angle in the cramped seat. The pilot had called over the intercom to apologise for the bumpy landing wishing everyone a safe trip before adding some sarcastic comment about enjoying the ‘lovely’ British weather. He signed off leaving the cabin crew to get the disgruntled passengers off the aircraft safely.

Everything had gone pretty smoothly after the landing though. He’d passed through immigration and customs quickly with no problems, and then made his way to the baggage reclaim to collect his suitcase. He did have to wait almost an hour just for it to come round on the carousel, because all the delayed flights were causing a huge backlog, but it wasn't like he had anything better to do at the time. England was still at Parliament at the time, and wouldn't finished for another three hours. 

He sits back up checking his phone again just in case, but there’s still no reply to any of his texts. He’s going to fall asleep if the island nation doesn't get here soon. The dim room and constant hum of the air conditioning is slowly lulling him to sleep. He’s also out of coffee, but doesn't feel like going back downstairs to the crowded terminal to buy another cup. He watches the bartender mill about mixing drinks for a couple of businessmen seated at the bar. He can't even get one, because then he really will fall asleep, damn it. 

The original plan had been for Romano to get a taxi after arriving at the airport to England’s home in Whitechapel, so the brunet could freshen up and relax for a bit before the blond got back from work. They’d have a very quick coffee (or tea, he supposed, in England’s case), and a ‘natter’ before the long drive to the Englishman’s manor house in York. They’re going to spend the next two weeks there working on an international trade agreement report between their two countries. His cheeks flush a little at the memory of that one particular phone call. The blond had to explain over the phone when they were making the arrangements that ‘having a natter’ meant ‘to have a casual conversation’, and not some kind of weird British male-bonding event like that bastard America had told him. Sometimes he’s not sure why the hell he’s even friends with that idiot. 

The seconds tick by one by one agonisingly slow. His eyelids feel heavy a deep yawn reverberating from his chest. The repetitive gentle clicks of his watch drive the tired Italian closer and closer to the edge of unconsciousness. He’s got to stay awake until England gets here, but the seemingly endless wait is tortuously boring. Maybe he should indulge his curiosity and go take a look at the ‘casino’ downstairs. He’s not expecting to actually win anything. He’s smarter than that, but at least he’d burn some time. Pfft, yeah, right. Knowing his luck the blond will arrive just as he leaves the lounge. So, he continues to sit and wait, and hope the Tea-Bastard won't be much longer.

He’d really wanted to take the underground subway instead of a taxi to England’s place. He’d seen it listed on the airport website under the transport options, and had been curious to see what it’s like. England had strongly advised against it though saying the stops could be extremely confusing for anyone not experienced with using The Underground, and he didn't want Romano to accidentally end up alone on the other side of the city with no clue on how to get back. He’d been a bit disappointed, but he didn't want to get lost in some shady area of London either, so in the end he agreed to take a taxi.

Shortly after the brunet had collected his suitcase from the baggage reclaim earlier that afternoon England had called to apologise, but he was going to be a bit later than expected. He could hear loud accented voices shouting in the background, and at one point the blond excused himself from the call for a second to tell someone to “shut the blood fuck up, wankers. I’m on the phone”. He’d sounded furious, and the Italian felt sorry for whoever the Englishman was yelling at. He really hadn't cared that the blond was going to be late. He hadn't even left the airport yet thanks to all the delays the shitty weather is causing, and he told the blond exactly that. A full-scale shouting match had started on the other end of the phone, and then he heard a heavy sigh before England announced that he’d be at the airport in around an hour or so to pick him up - if that was alright with him. He didn't have any problem with that. It meant he didn't have to go out of in the rain for a bit longer, and he’d have time to sit down with a nice strong cup of coffee before the blond arrived. 

He’d heard from the Macho-Potato that England is a pretty diligent worker, so whatever the hell had been going on in 10 Downing Street that afternoon must have been seriously chaotic if the Brit was suddenly willing to just pack up and leave early to pick Romano up from the airport, and he thought Italian politics is hell. He told the blond nation that he’d get a drink and wait in the terminal until the older nation got there. 

That had been three hours ago. He’d waited patiently for the first hour happily exploring while he drank his espresso, but by the second hour with no explanation from the other nation as to where he was the Italian started to get anxious. Romano put it down to the bad weather hoping that England was stuck in traffic, and went to go wait in the executive VIP lounge (where he is now - still waiting) until the blond finally arrived. Sometimes being an international diplomat has its perks. He’d wasted some time at the lounge bar chatting with the bartender and watching TV catching up on the news, but there was still no sign of the island nation even after another hour.

He may has well of gotten the taxi, but then he’d have to go out in the rain. Ugh, no. Had he even told the Brit where to meet him? The designated meeting point is somewhere downstairs, but if England had already arrived to find Romano not there he would have tried to call, right? Just to make sure he sends the blond a quick text with his current location. There’s a reply almost instantly:

_Got it. On my way to you now. Just parked the car. Sorry about the weather. See you in a couple of minutes._

He’d suddenly really nervous as he waits for the Englishman. He’s not had any kind of direct communication with the island nation for a really long time, and from what he’s heard from various other nations England is a miserable asshole with a hell of a stormy temper. He’s kind of scared to see the blond. Ever since the war he’d locked himself away in Sicily. The only times he actually saw any other nations were on the rare occasions when Spain or Veneziano would take the time to visit him dragging France and/or one or both of the two Potato-Bastards with them. He doesn't even take the annual trip to Rome to spend the Christmas holidays together with his brothers anymore. Veneziano would ask him every year, he’d think about it, but somehow he always found a reason not to go. 

Come to think of it he can't actually remember the last time he’d seen that snot-nosed brat Seborga either, or the Old Bastard. According to Veneziano, the brat has grown into quite the ladies man over the years, no surprise - he is Italian after all. Their brother had even mentioned something about the kid having a cute little girlfriend another nation even. There aren't really that many female nations, and he can't imagine Belgium or Hungary having the patience to deal with the idiot willingly. Maybe Czech...Doubtful. Slovakia would definitely have something to say about it if his former wife started seeing other nations. They might as well still be married (politics aside). No one really comes to mind. Maybe he should call Seborga later and find out. As for Old Man Vatican City...Probably best not to bother thinking about him. The bastard only ever gets on his case these days, and he’s not in the mood for another fucking lecture about whatever shit the mafia has caused this time. 

He’d never have considered leaving Sicily let alone going all the way to England in the first place if Veneziano hadn't coerced him into it. He vaguely recalls a phone call with his idiot brother about a month and a half ago. Something about the doofus really needing a favour, having too much work to do, and desperately wanting a vacation. Veneziano had promised to repay his southern counterpart with as many home-cooked meals as he wanted for the rest of his life. He’s been thinking a lot about getting more involved with national affairs again, instead of just letting his younger brother make all the decisions for the both of them. So, after a lot of thinking, and a lot begging on Veneziano’s part he agreed. It hadn't been until after he’d finalised all the plans to meet with the English nation that the younger Italian nation had bothered to tell him about the blond’s shitty reputation. Asshole. 

He tosses the nearly empty cup of cold espresso into the trash bin by the wall with a huff, and casts his gaze back out of the window into the endless grey sea of rainclouds. Frantic commuters desperately try to seek shelter from the weather as they come and go from the terminal, and the constant glimmering glow of headlights illuminates the rain speckled glass. How anyone can willing live in such a depressingly horrible place is beyond him. It’s no wonder the British nation is supposedly always so miserable.

His fingernails dig small grooves into his palms, and it’s not until he tastes the metallic tang of blood on his tongue that he realises he’s been biting his lip a little too hard. He licks at the cut trying to stop the bleeding when something moves in the corner of his vision. Petrified anticipation sends a shiver down his back as he catches England’s peridot gaze in the reflection of the glass. The other nation approaches, and Romano’s heart nearly explodes with every step the blond takes. The continuous sound of the rain echoes along with his thundering heartbeat as he slowly turns to face the blond silently wishing he was somehow magically back home in nice, sunny, dry, Palermo. He should be lazing around at home. Resting under the comfortable shade of the porch roof enjoying the warmth of the heavy summer sun as it beats down on the Sicilian streets not here, but he is and he’s fucking terrified all of a sudden. 

The blond draws closer, and the Italian forces himself to stand. Heart still hammering away at a mile a minute. If it beats any harder it might just jump right out of his fucking chest. They both stand there in tense silence for a minute. The blond looks a lot younger than he remembers. His features are soft, and he’s not as tall as the brunet thought - he’s still a head or so taller than him though, che. He’d always envisioned the former empire as some kind of demon from Hell, because of how Spain always speaks about him, and from the few memories he has of the other nation, but the sopping wet form in front of him with that messy blond hair and those hideous dark eyebrows seems just as human as any other nation. 

England gives him a small, awkward smile, and a firm handshake along with another apology for being late. The blond then offers to carry the brunet’s suitcase to the car. “O-okay Tea-Bastard. Lead the way.” He freezes as the words tumble out of his mouth. Shit. He hadn't meant to say that, but he calls everyone ‘bastard’. Damn it. Hopefully the former empire won't be too upset. His cheeks flush. The Englishman raises a large brow at the unintentional insult, but doesn't say anything about it as they continue to the elevator. Fuck, this is awkward. He really doesn't want to be here after all.

England ‘nattered’ a bit on their way through the terminal, and despite his previous nervousness about meeting with the other nation Romano found himself relaxing a little as the Englishman talked away to himself. He told the Italian about his shitty day at work, and the chaos he had to endure while juggling parliamentary work and his crazy brothers - especially Wales, who is apparently always out of control during rugby season. He isn't exactly sure what rugby has to do with anything, but apparently it’s a big deal to England’s siblings. Having too much paperwork also seems to be a common problem for nations these days, and he doesn't like the sound of having to stay up late to take video conferences at God-knows what time in the morning as the blond described. England seems pretty approachable despite the rumours, so Romano hesitantly told the island nation all about his journey just trying to get rid of his nerves. England had apologised for the rain, again, but it’s not like he can control what the weather does, so he doesn't get why the blond keeps apologising for it.

As soon as they reach the exterior doors the Italian freezes. Completely stunned by the sheer force of the blistering rain. He hadn't even thought to bring a fucking coat! Chigi! It had been thirty-something degrees and bright clear skies when he left Sicily. The thought that it might be raining when he got to London never even crossed his mind. He snorts feeling even more stupid now. Of course it would be fucking raining. It’s one of the things the blond bastard is best know for. Bad food and never ending rain.

“Here.” The blond hands the brunet a fold up umbrella from his pocket. “You're in luck today. I don't usually carry one with me.” England pulls up the collar of his trenchcoat tugging the heavy material tighter around his body. It suddenly dawns on the Italian that the island nation must have anticipated this might happen ahead of time, and actually had the forethought to bring an umbrella with him just in case. He groans totally embarrassed by his own ignorance. England doesn't seem to notice though. His sharp peridot eyes are completely focused on the storm.

“It doesn't look like it’s going to stop anytime soon, does it?” No, it doesn't. If anything it seems like it’s getting worse. He grips the folded umbrella handle tightly in his hand watching the torrent of water as it flow down the road towards a storm drain, and hesitantly follows the blond out the door. No longer muffled by the thick windows of the terminal the true force of the ear-splitting rain is overwhelming. The air is hot and heavy making it hard to breathe. The two nations halt for a second under the shelter of the exterior glass roof while the blond scans the car park. Presumably for the fastest direct route to the car. 

“Ready?” He shakes his head ‘no’, and puts up the umbrella clinging to it like a shield. He must have picked the single worst day possible to come here. Veneziano better make him a lifetime’s worth of homemade desserts now too, damn it. 

“We’re going to have to make a run for it. Come on.” He looks up to ask the crazy bastard if he’s serious only to realise the blond is already headed out into the carpark. He hesitates before running out from under the safety of the portico desperate to catch up to the other nation not wanting to lose sight of him in the busy carpark. The streams of water running down the umbrella make it kind of hard to see, so he keeps his eyes fixed on the Englishman’s light grey trenchcoat as they make their way through the downpour towards the blond’s car.

A gust of wind picks up nearly ripping the umbrella from his hands, and England barely has time to unlock the vehicle before the Italian is tugging at the handle desperate to get out of the pouring rain. What the fuck is with this rain? He’s soaked through hair wet and sticking to his face as the disheveled Italian tries to figure out what the hell just happened. The Tea-Bastard is even more soaked than he is, but just laughs as he looks over at the irritated half-nation. 

“Are you alright?” Fuck, no. He’s not alright. His suit is wet and his hair’s a fucking mess. Damn it. He hates this God-forsaken country already, and he’s only been here a few hours.

The two of them sit in silence as England drives. The brunet rests his cheek in the palm of his hand hiding the frown on his face as he watches the wipers move back and forth sending little rivers of water running down the edges of the windscreen. Olive green orbs settle on the silent nation across from him. He’d never noticed the faint band of freckles over the blond’s nose before, but it had been a while since he’d seen the other nation. The last thing he remembers before his eyes grow heavy is the gentle rumbling of the engine, and the rhythmic sound of the rain hitting the car. 

He feels a gentle nudge on his shoulder, and a muffled sound, but he’s too sleepy and relaxed to care, so he ignores it. When it happens again his eyes slowly drift open only to be greeted by unfamiliar surroundings and darkness.

“-ano? Romano?” A voice calls from somewhere. The brunet looks for the source of the sound only to come face to face with England’s questioning gaze. The stunning peridots seem to glow so brightly in the darkness that he can’t help but stare for a minute as his brain tries to process what’s going on. “Romano? Are you awake?” Oh, right. He snaps his eyes away, and the bond backs off a little.

“Sì...” He mumbles, and stifles a yawn. The groggy Italian takes a minute to try and survey his surroundings, but only recognises that the two are still in England’s car. It takes a second for him to try and adjust his brain to English. “Where are we, Bastard?” 

“Just outside of Chesterfield. We’ve still got roughly an hour or so to go yet I'm afraid.” Another yawn tries to escape, and he stretches a bit realising that he can’t move.

“No, I mean where are we, exactly?” He looks out the window before turning back to the other nation. “A car park?” He undoes the seatbelt and rubs the back of his neck. The blond let’s out a small ‘oh’ of understanding before rubbing his own eyes a little. The contrast in their skin colours distracts the Italian for a second, because England looks so unnaturally pale in comparison to his own tanned skin. The Macho-Potato is pale too, and the Albino-Potato, but the Englishman’s porcelain-like complexion is so fair he looks almost translucent.

“A service station. The last one actually before we reach York. Since it’s the only place we can stop at this time of night I thought you might like to get out and stretch your legs for a bit before we set off again.” When England mentions the time Romano lazily looks at the dashboard clock before jolting forward in surprise tweaking his neck for the second time. The Englishman jumps back slightly at the brunet’s sudden movement. The numbers 12:45 stare back at him. It’s going to be the early hours of the morning before they arrive at England’s manor house. Ugh. Damn.

According to the Brit the heavy rain in London had really messed up their journey. It had taken over two hours just to get out of the city, but there isn't a single cloud in the sky here in wherever it is England had said they are. It’s warm and dry. “How long was I asleep?” The mediterranean man asks too tired to try and work it out himself. He jumps again, but this time it’s his own voice which sounded far too loud in the silence of the car that startled him. Doesn't this shitbox have a radio?

“As a matter of fact, it does, but you were sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake you by having the radio on too loud-” The blond is frowning at him angrily. Shit. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. “- and I’ll have you know, this -” the Brit gestures around the interior of the vehicle. “- Is a marvel. A solid piece of Great British engineering.” He snorts, and crosses his arms not convinced.

“Mine’s nicer.” It’s a childish remark, because, really, he’s far too old to be comparing cock sizes with anyone, especially England of all nations, but the slack-jawed expression that ghosts over the blond’s face is priceless, and his mind is still fuzzy from sleep. Silence fills the air for a second, and the Englishman splutters before chuckling a little.

“All right, smart-arse.” England’s still smiling. Those mysterious peridot’s shining in amusement. “I’ll give you that one. You Italian’s do make some bloody nice cars.” There’s something about the way the Tea-Bastard says that sentence that makes the brunet flush. Like he recognises Romano’s status as Italy too, that he, and not just his brother can actually do something and do it well. He knows he shouldn’t take the blond’s words to heart, because the other is obviously just talking in a general sense referring to the Italian people as a whole, but, but, damn it. It felt really good to have someone compliment his people like that. 

The tanned nation buffs his nails across his shirt eyes cast down to inspect them with an unimpressed frown. Trying to hide the way his heart is beating away in his chest about ready to explode. Again. All he can do his fall on to his default aloofness to stop himself from freaking out like a moron. He hadn't been prepared for the blond to be so, so, so fucking nice. The rain in England must have some weird fucking shit in it turning Romano into an emotional wreck, because he swears he was fine before stepping off the plane.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Even his own voice sounds a bit alien to him at the moment, but he forces a smirk. “Seriously though, Bastard. How long was I asleep?” The blond turns in his seat. 

“You nodded off just as we got out of London.” Romano just looks at him completely dumbfounded. “I stopped at a service station a ways back to refuel, but you were completely away with the fairies.” He stares in shocked silence as the blond shifts slightly in his seat again. He vaguely hears chuckling, but England is still looking at him with the same relax expression as before. Damn it, now he’s fucking hearing things too. The brunet doesn’t quite know what ‘away with the fairies’ means, but he can take a guess. He’s more concerned about the fact that he had supposedly been asleep for fucking hours in a near-stranger’s car. Spain always said that the Italian sleeps like the dead, but he’d never really believed it. The part that scares him the most is that he felt comfortable enough to actually fall asleep in the first place. He’s always been kind of scared of the former imperial bastard...England shifts again, and takes off his own seatbelt. 

Spain also says a lot of things about England too, Romano recalls. Mostly about how he is a cruel, ruthless bastard. The brunet has to wonder though just how much of the blond’s scary reputation is actually true. England has a sense of humor if nothing else, but the nation’s bad reputation must come from somewhere, right? He realises he’s no closer to understanding the blond than he was before this whole trip started. What he does know is just how easy it is for Spain to goad people into fights, and the Italian wonders if most of England’s unfriendly behaviour towards the Spaniard is brought on by the tomato-loving idiot himself. The island nation says something and reaches for the door handle, but he missed it too caught up in his mental ramblings. 

The blond can’t seem to get out of the vehicle fast enough, and the brunet’s stomach suddenly comes to life when he exits the car and stands. He blushes slightly before asking the other man if they can get something to eat since they’re here anyway. He watches the nation’s reaction carefully trying to understand the man behind those peridot eyes a little better. Dark heavy brows that look completely out of place on the other’s porcelain skin knit together in a frown. Pale fingers drum against the roof of the car in what Romano think’s has to be agitation judging by the blond’s expression.

“Of course, that’s fine. I imagine you must be quite hungry given that you slept right through dinner time.” Romano’s blush darkens, but even in the dim streetlights of the carpark the brunet can see a faint blush on England’s cheeks too. “Do you mind if I stop by the gent’s first? It’s just, I’ve been driving all bloody evening, and I could really use a trip to the loo.” Loo...Right, the toilet. Stunned the Italian just stares, and the island nation’s blush darkens a bit before the Englishman finally snaps at him to stop ‘gawking’. The sudden change in volume makes the shorter man jump. He snorts biting down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling. Seriously? If the bastard is so desperate that his face is flushed he should have just said so. The blush on the pale man’s cheeks is kind of nice though. 

“That’s fine, Bastard. Let’s go. We can eat later.” 

“You’re bloody wonderful, Romano! Thanks! I won't be a tick.” That smile is dazzling, and he’s pretty sure he’s actually died from shock this time. England’s already half way across the carpark by the time Romano comes back to life, so he can’t possibly know how shaken the mediterranean nation is. Damn it! What the fuck? What the fucking fuck?! It takes a few more minutes of endless profanities from the Italian before his scarlet cheeks start to cool, and his heart stops trying to escape from his chest for the second time in only a few minutes. 

He hurries across the tarmac to catch up to the blond. 

By the time England appears from the bathroom, and seats himself down opposite the brunet in the small restaurant booth Romano’s already finished with his ‘meal’, and making a headstart on helping the blond finish his fries. He couldn't help it. He’d gotten bored waiting for the Englishman, again, and the food was starting to go cold. No point in wasting it, right? Even if he can only just call it edible. Trying to bite through the greasy burger was like chewing on rubber, and the fries aren't any better, but it’s better than nothing. Barely.

“Hungry?” Damn bastard, smirking at him like that. His cheeks flush in embarrassment. He stuffs his hands into his lap to stop himself from eating anymore of the blond’s food. England just smiles and pushes the small packet across the table towards him before sliding the wrapped up burger his way as well. “Go ahead. I'm not very keen on fast food myself. Beside you haven't eaten yet have you?” He hesitates, before hastily grabbing the packets before the blond can change his mind. Damn it, he’s not eaten since lunch. He sips at the soda to wash down the cardboard fries watching the Brit silently mess with his phone. 

A groan from across the table catches his attention as he finishes the last of the fries sucking the salt off his finger tips. “What’s wrong?” England’s phone is discarded onto the tabletop with a small ‘thud’ and another groan.

“That blasted Frog has decided he will be dropping by at some point over the next couple of days.” Frog? He doesn't understand, and England huffs.

“France.” Ugh, France?! Fuck, he doesn't want to see him. He hates that pervert almost as much as the Potato-Bastard. England doesn't want to see the bastard either judging from the heavy frown clouding his face. He feels sorry for the peridot-eyed blond having to be such close neighbors with that pervert. He has his brothers between him and the bastard. Well England has an entire sea separating him from the rest of the continent, doesn't he...Damn it, now he feels sorry for his idiot brother having to share land borders with both the Pervert-Bastard and the Macho-Potato. He unwraps the burger and takes a bite out of it. Why wait until so early in the morning to text though? Couldn't he have sent it earlier, or even wait until tomorrow (later today)? If they hadn't gotten delayed by the rain they would already be at England’s manor, and the Brit would most likely be asleep. Unless he’s usually up at this time of night?

“Hopefully it will just be a flying visit. He usually visits Scotland at this time of year.” Scotland...Oh, Scozia? The scary fucking redhead? When was the last time he’d seen that bastard? Fuck, he’s even scarier than the Tea-Bastard. The blond sips at his tea reaching forward to grab some fries only to find an empty packet. “Bloody hell, you finished them already? What did you do, inhale them?” His cheeks flush again, and he puts the half-eaten burger back down on the wrapper. He’s fucking hungry. What did the blond expect? For him to just sit there and look at them? The baffled look on the nation’s face is hilarious though, and kind of adorable. He looks like a pouty little brat. The hell? He IS pouting! Pfft! 

England really does look like a kid with that sulky look on his face. Was the blond even alive when the Old Fart was still around? He doesn't ever remember seeing him back then. He remembers the northern bastard, Scozia, and the other one. What’s he called...England’s other brother with the darker hair...Wales? Right, Galles. He definitely would have remembered seeing those monstrous eyebrows and that scruffy blond birds-nest, so just how old is the Tea-Bastard then? If the blond wasn't born until after Grandpa died then that would make him even younger than Veneziano wouldn't it? Huh...

“W-what are you staring at?” Shit!

“N-nothing, Bastard. A-anyway you said I could eat them, so you can't fucking complain!” He rests his flushed cheek in the palm of his hand elbow propped up on the cool metal table top. 

“Eat-?...Oh right, the fries. Well, yes. I did, but I didn't expect...Bloody hell, I’ll be back in a minute.” The plastic material of the booth seat squeaks as the blond slides out and stands retrieving his discarded phone and dropping into his back trouser pocket. 

“Where are you going?” He sips his soda more amused than concerned. 

“To get something to eat. Dare I ask if you want anything?” Sarcastic bastard.

“I don't know. What is there?” Grabbing the small menu from the holder he scans over it looking for the dessert listings. “I’ll have some ice cream, I guess.”

“That sounds good. What flavour?” The blond swipes the menu from him still frowning. He throws the blond an irritated glare at having the menu snatched away, but the other nation is too busy looking at piece of laminated card in his hand to notice.

“Chocolate.” England nods putting the menu back into the holder behind the sauces.

“I’ll have the same I think. Alright. I’ll be right back.” He watches the blond make his way over to the counter. The last of the burger is completely cold by now, so he wraps it back up and puts it back inside the brown paper takeout bag. Apart from the two nations and the young brunet behind the counter the place is deserted. There were a couple of other cars in the carpark when they’d arrived, but he can't see anyone around. England waits silently for their desserts drumming his fingers on the counter in time with the muffled music playing through the wall mounted speaks. He can't help but wonder what France wants though. From what he knows the two blonds aren't particularly close, and only ever end up fighting whenever they see each other. Why would the pervert suddenly feel like dropping in on the Brit now?

He thinks about it as he watches the island nation, but can't think of any reason why the Pervert-Bastard would go out of his way to visit other than for work, maybe. The guy hands the blond two small tubs of chocolate ice cream and writes something down on a leaflet before handing it to the nation with a big smile. Whatever he had said makes the blond storm back over to the table red-faced and obviously embarrassed. Maybe he’d asked him out? Probably not. The leaflet is sharply folded in four and stuffed into the blond’s trouser pocket. He raises an eyebrow at the other nation’s weird behaviour as he makes way back over, but England says nothing stuffing a large scoop of ice cream into his mouth. 

“What was that about? He asks as the green-eyed man sits back down making the plastic squeak again as he slides into the booth. 

“Nothing. Here.” His own tub of ice cream is placed before him. The blond is obviously troubled, but there’s nothing he can do about it if the other man won't talk. Damn it, it’s none of his business anyway, but now he’s curious. He leaves England to sulk while he eats, but the tense atmosphere is driving him insane. He really wants to ask, but the island nation will probably get angry at him if he keeps pushing. Che. Maybe he can trick the other man into telling him what’s got him so agitated, or maybe he can ask the guy behind the counter. That way he wouldn't have to deal with the Brit’s temper. No, it’d be way too suspicious for him to just go over there and ask now. England would definitely know. What if it really is nothing, and he’s just reading into it too much, but then why would the blond suddenly be so flustered? 

“W-what is it?” The sudden words break him from his thoughts. England’s bright peridot gaze watches him carefully from across the table the dark blush still staining his pale cheeks. Shit. He must have been staring again. He shrugs finishing the last of the ice cream. They chat for a bit about various things. The weather, popular local tourist spots, nothing particularly interesting. Just the usual small talk topics. 

“Well then. If you’re finished should we make tracks?” The tub of unfinished ice cream sits slowly melting in front of the blond.

“You’re not going to finish your ice cream, Bastard?”

“I’ll eat it on the way back to the car. I’d like to get going before daybreak if possible.” Shit. There’s no way it’s really that late already, right? There’s no clock anywhere in sight, so he checks his phone. 2:27AM already? No fucking way! Seriously? It’s still dark outside, but it won't be for much longer. How long did England say they had to go? An hour? Damn. It really is going to be daylight by the time they arrive. He’s surprisingly not that tired despite how late it is. Probably because he’d slept so long in the car earlier, and on the plane too.

“Yeah, let’s go. I can't believe it’s this late.” The blond hums in his throat and picks up his tub of ice cream. 

They talk a little as England drives. It’s too dark to really see anything besides the tall silhouette of trees, and the occasional glow of eyes reflecting back from the headlights as some animal or other scurries around at the edge of the road. The radio plays quietly in the background, and soon enough Romano drifts off again.

It’s gone four in the morning when England shakes him awake announcing quietly that they’ve finally arrived, and despite the fact that he’d slept for most of the car journey (and on the plane) the Italian is now exhausted from all the travelling. The sun is already starting to rise, and there’s a light mist hanging over the dew covered fields as the gentle rays begin to peak above the hills. 

The soft slam of a car door catches his attention. He quickly follows suit grabbing his carry-on bag from the footwell trying not to slip on the loose gravel as he heads to the back of the car to help the blond retrieve their suitcases. It's clear to see the blond is just as exhausted as he is by the way he’s batting with the keys.

The dawn chorus and the bleating of sheep carries in the crisp morning air. He takes a moment to admire the old stone architecture before following the blond to the porch. The front door opens with a heavy click and England ushers him through the entryway with a tired “After you.” As the dim light of the stained glass chandelier overhead flickers on the empty house comes to life. His voice catches in his throat as he takes it all in. The old oak beams, the intricately carved designs on the dark panelling, the countless framed oil painting adorning the walls. It’s beautiful. Every corner of what he can see of the entryhall is filled with some kind of furnishing or ornament from the rugs on the floor to the carvings on the doorframes. 

The island nation locks the heavy wooden door behind the Italian, and tosses his keys into a glass dish on the sideboard. The brunet folds down the umbrella and places it upside down in the empty stand while England undoes his trenchcoat and places it on the coatrack in the corner of the entryway.

“It’s not much, but make yourself at home.” Not much...Seriously? It’s like he’s stepped back in time. The crystal lamps, bone china vases, and various paintings and portraits aligning the walls. It’s amazing. Everything is antique. The thing that really catches his attention is the crystal-faced grandfather clock sitting by an archway behind the large double staircase in the centre of the entry hall. The heavy ticking and swaying of the pendulum echoes through the house...Damn it. This room alone is probably worth more than everything the Italian does and has ever owned, and it's just the foyer! 

“I'm going to have a quick brew before taking the bags up. Do you want anything?” He nods not really paying much attention too absorbed in all the ornate furnishings and intricately carved woodwork. England drops his bags down by the stairs, so he does the same, and follows the blond down the narrow hall passing the parlour to the kitchen. The taller nation places the plastic carrier bag of necessities they'd gotten from the 24 hour convenience store down on the island counter in the centre of the room, and busies himself with filling the electric kettle. The wooden counters and cabinets are much lighter than the dark paneling in the hall, and the granite countertops and stone tiled walls and floor sparkle softly under the gentle light of the orange lamps above.

He vaguely hears the electric kettle boil and click off, and then jumps caught off guard by the blond placing a mug of coffee down on the island in front of him. The bastard laughs and apologizes for startling him, and blows on his steaming mug of tea before taking an experimental sip. The sudden buzz of his phone going off makes him jump again, and he quickly fishes it out of his pocket to see some pointless advertising email, and a text from the Tomato-Bastard. About fucking time. What kind of idiot leaves it until gone 4AM to return a text to someone? Oh. Damn it. The bastard had sent him that message over five hours ago. How’d he manage to miss that? He sends the idiot a short text back telling him that he’s fine, that England hasn't had a chance to poison him yet, and they’ve only just arrived. At least Spain did reply, even if he’d somehow missed it. Veneziano hadn't bothered. He double checks. Nope, nothing. Asshole.

The blond is seriously struggling to keep his eyes open. The other nation is so tired he can't stop himself from yawning every few minutes, and it's making the Italian tired just looking at him. He feels kind of bad for the blond. From the sounds of it he’d had a bad day at work thanks to his crazy brothers, and then he had to drive the whole way across the country. On top of all that the weather had been shit too. The Macho-Potato seems to be right about the Englishman being a diligent worker. There’s no way Romano would have gone to all that trouble if their positions had been reversed. Hell no. 

They finish their drinks without saying much. The mugs are placed in the sink to be dealt with later when they’re not so exhausted, and England takes the bags as he show the brunet upstairs. They reach the second floor, and he stops in front of the beautiful large arched stained glass window perfectly centered on the landing to take a look around. There’s two halls and two narrower L-shaped staircases. One of each on either side of the landing perfectly symmetrical. Damn it. Just how many floors does this place have?

“Six in total.” Ugh, he hadn't meant to say that out loud, damn it. 

“Six?!” The place looks big from the outside, but he never realised it’s that big. Damn it. England just chuckles and continues up the left hand staircase to the third floor. He doesn't want to get separated in such a huge old building, so he quickly tails the bastard before he can lose him. England probably wouldn't be able to find him again if he did get lost, and there’s no way he’d be able to find his way back on his own. He had enough trouble trying to find his way around Spain’s house as a kid, and that only had three floors excluding the basement, but he never went down there alone. The basement at Spain’s had always creeped him out. The house is quiet as the two nation’s walk the heavy ticking of the grandfather clock echoing through the house. 

They eventually reach the third floor, and he sits down on the armrest of the little loveseat on the landing while England re-adjusts the bags to get a better grip. This side of the house seems pretty symmetrical with the staircases and entry hall in the centre, so as long as he can find the stairs he shouldn't get completely lost. England gestures for the brunet to look down the long hall. “I’m going to turn in for the night. My room is just there at the end of the hall. Do you need anything before I go?” 

“Err...yeah. Where am I going to sleep, Bastard, a-and where’s the bathroom?” He feels pretty stupid for asking, but he's not about to just go and start wandering around the other nation’s home trying to find things. That’d be fucking rude, and he doesn't want to upset the blond by him having to come find the Italian if he does get lost.

“Ah, right. The bathroom on this side is just there next to you on the left. A couple of the guest rooms do have their own ensuite though if you'd prefer that. Though don't ask me which ones, because I honestly can't remember. It’s been awhile since I’ve been to this house. There’s a second bathroom on this floor on the other side of the house too if you feel like wandering over there.” He nods taking a look at all the doors. “As for where to sleep, that’s entirely up to you. Feel free to pick whichever room you’d like.”

He can't believe it. “Seriously?” He can't believe England is happy to just let the brunet wander around on his own. They’re almost complete strangers, and nations. Doesn't the blond feel uncomfortable having another nation freely walking around his place unsupervised? Not that he’s planning on doing anything insane like attacking the Englishman or stealing anything, but there’s no way he’d feel comfortable letting the blond do the same, damn it. He probably would have freaked out over the idea of having the other nation in his home to begin with, and made the blond stay at a hotel or something. 

“Of course. As I said earlier, make yourself at home. You’re going to be staying here for the next two weeks after all.” He glances around the hall at all the doors again. A yawn slips past his lips making England yawn as well. Damn it. He’s so tired any room with a bed will do. 

“Um, okay, thanks, Bastard.” 

“You're welcome. Anything else?”

“Err, no thanks. I'm good. I think. Goodnight, ba-Inghilterra.”

“It’s alright. You can keep calling me “bastard” if you want. Don't force yourself. Goodnight then, or I suppose it’s good morning now, isn't it?” He takes the blond’s tired nonsensical ramblings as a que to let the other nation go to bed. If he doesn't lie down soon the poor bastard is probably going to pass out on the floor. He says goodnight taking his suitcase, and then watches the other nation drag his own suitcase and himself down the hall to his room. The Tea-Bastard is actually pretty nice. Not like what he’d expected at all. He’d been so scared of the idea of staying with the former empire for two whole weeks, but the blond doesn't seem as scary as he remembered. Maybe he can do this. What the fuck? Of course he can. He has to, damn it, or Veneziano will never trust him to do anything again.

Once the Brit is out of sight the Italian hesitantly reaches for the nearest door only to find an airing cupboard. Ugh. He turns around and tries the door in front of him. Thankfully this one is a bedroom. He flicks on the light and looks inside. It’s nice. Spacious with a large four-poster bed in the centre up against the wall. There’s a small two-seat sofa and two armchairs by the large bay window, and a glass door on the wall beside it probably leading to a balcony or something. Fucking fancy for just a guest room. He brings his suitcase inside and shuts the door. By the time he’s gotten undressed to his boxers, and finally throws himself under the duvet the sun is already shining brightly behind the heavy curtains. 

He’ll have to call the Tomato-Brain later and give him a full ‘report’, but for now he really needs to just sleep. He buries himself under the soft material and tries to relax, but his brain won't switch off as he recalls the events of the day. Damn it, he’s too anxious to fall asleep. England is just down the hall. Did he lock the door? The island nation doesn't seem too bad, but he’s uncomfortable with the idea of letting his guard down when there’s a nation he doesn't really know so close by. What is he so scared for? He didn't have a problem falling asleep in the car earlier, so why is he so nervous again now? It’s not like he needs Spain to watch over him anymore. He’s been independent for years already, damn it, and he can't think of any reason why the Tea-Bastard would try to hurt him. He’s literally in the middle of nowhere staying in another nation’s home all by himself though. A strong nation that’s known to have a violent temper...Fuck! He needs to stop freaking himself out. 

There’s some buzzing on the nightstand. His phone. Who the hell is it at this time in the morning? He opens his eyes and grabs the device off the bedside table with a groan. A text from Spain...What the hell?! 7AM already? Had he fallen asleep? It doesn't feel like it, but there’s no way he just laid there freaking out like an idiot all that time right? 

_Morning Roma!_  
_I’m glad to hear you arrived safely!_  
_I’ve got a busy day at work again today, so wish me luck, okey?_  
_Good luck with your work too!_  
_I'm super proud of you as always!_  
_Love you!_

Seriously, that idiot. Maybe he can catch the bastard before he leaves for work. He calls Spain’s number, and amazingly the man picks up right away.

“Roma? I'm just about to head out, what’s up? This is super early for you. What are you doing up?”

“I can't sleep, so...” So I thought I’d call you. Damn it, he’s pathetic.

“Eh? Can't sleep? Are you okay?” Damn it. The stupid bastard is always worrying about him. He bites his lip to stop himself from smiling as he turns over onto his back. Even the ceiling is decorated with delicate carvings and fancy architraving.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.”

“You don't sound fine, cariño. Your voice is all wobbly.”

“Damn it, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that, you stupid shithead?” He can hear the Spaniard laughing and the sound of keys. He should probably hang up otherwise the bastard is probably going to be late.

“One more time, I guess. So what did you call me for? I'm about to go to work.”

“Yeah, it’s nothing, don't worry about it. Have, have a good day, Bastard.” He's about to end the call when he hears Spain yell down the line at him not to.

“Eh! Roma don't hang up! I've got a little time, so tell me what’s up! It’s not like you to call me all of a sudden. What’s wrong?” What’s he supposed to say? He got fucking insecure being in an unfamiliar nation’s home for the first time in decades, and just wanted to hear the bastard’s voice? Damn it, there’s no way he can fucking say that.

“It’s really nothing, alright?! I got your text, so I thought I’d call. Don't make a fucking big deal-”

“Awww!! Boss is so loved!”

“Bastard! I told you not to make a fucking b-”

“Roma! You’re so freaking cute! I love you-”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up already, idiot.” And the bastard wonders why he never calls? Spain is always way too excitable. All the time. He does kind of feel better after hearing the man’s voice though.

“So, there’s really nothing bothering you?”

“No, stupid. I'd tell you if there was. Just, go to fucking work already, okay?”

“Well, if you’re sure. Take care then. I've really got to go. Crap, Roma. I'm late!”

“We'll go then, moron!”

“I'm going, I'm going. Love you!”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.”

“...” Silence, but the bastard still hasn't ended the call. 

“Hang up, already, damn it. Aren't you late?” 

“Sí.” Damn it, he doesn't have the energy for Spain’s stupid games right now.

“Then go to work, stupid. Bye!” He ends the call, and rolls over to bury his face in the pillow. He drops the phone onto the sheets, and the thing starts ringing again. What does that moron want now?!

“What?”

“Roma! Boss said he loves you! Don't you have something to say to me?” Fucking hell. Not this again. Spain really is going to be late if he doesn't leave soon. 

“Drop dead.”

“That’s mean!” 

“Yeah, well that’s what you get for being an idiot.”

“Would it kill you to be nice to me for once?” Well, fuck. That was unexpected. The Tomato-Bastard isn't usually that direct. Is, is he okay? Seriously Spain’s always been over affectionate, and a moron, but he usually would have given up by now.

“A-are you alright?” The line goes quiet for a minute before Spain fucking squeals down the phone right into his ear.

“What’s this? Roma are you worried about me?”

“What? N-no, fucking, damn it! Shut up!” The bastard just laughs. His face is on fucking fire, damn it, and the line goes quiet again.

“...I’m okay. I mean, I’m good! I’m great!” That doesn't sound convincing at all. He obviously has something on his mind. Spain’s always been a terrible liar.

“Are you in trouble or something?”

“What? No, seriously I'm fine! Well, I'm late, so my boss is going to yell at me, but-”

“Spain, what going on, damn it?”

“Nothing! Really!”

“Really?”

“Really! Really!” 

“...Fine. Don't fucking tell me then, damn you.”

“It’s really nothing important, so don't get mad! I'll talk to you later, okey? My boss is gonna kill me!” So there is ‘something’, damn. It must be bad if the bastard won't talk to him about it. 

“Yeah, okay. Fine. Speak to you later, asshole.”

“Roma! Don't be like that!” There a sigh, and silence. “...Take care, then. Bye!

Fuck! Now he feels like a dick. “H-hey, hey, Spain?”

“Hm? What is it, Romano? I have to-”

“-Take care, damn it!” Fucking, idiot. Spain starts laughing, and Romano hangs up before he can say anything else stupid.

He’s worried for the older nation though. Spain had sounded weird on the phone. They always banter. The Tomato-Bastard would be over-affectionate and say something embarrassing, and Romano would get annoyed and cuss the bastard out until he shut up, but Spain had seemed really weird during the call. The bastard is shit at communicating at the best of times, but he’s known the man long enough to tell when something’s wrong, and something is definitely troubling his former boss. 

Probably Belgium. Spain had told him before that the two of them are back together again. He doesn't get why they keep trying to make it work, because in the end it never does. They always end up breaking up after only a few months, and then he has to listen to the Tomato-Bastard bitch about the blonde until he gets over it, or until the Italian loses his temper and chucks the moron out. He wouldn't be surprised if the two had started fighting again already. He hopes that’s the problem, and it's not anything more serious, because then hopefully it’ll be over with soon. 

There’s no point in trying to get sleep anymore now he’s too awake to drift off. He may as well get up, and take a look around the place before the Tea-Bastard wakes up. He’s exhausted though, and he can't will his body to move from the comfy bed. Che. Maybe he should text Veneziano again just to annoy him. He knows just how much his little brother loves being woken up early. If Spain can be bothered to drag his ass out of bed on time for work then his idiot brother should too. 

_Buongiorno, fratellino!_  
_Get your ass out of bed and do some fucking work._

He can't help but smirk as he watches the little green bar slide along. His phone pings letting him know the text has sent, and he waits. He shouldn't torment the idiot, but he can't help himself. 

His phone starts to buzz Veneziano’s ringtone playing loudly in the silence of the large bedroom.

“Pronto?”

“You’re a dick, fratello. I hate you.” Pfft. He fucking knew the little shit would still be sleeping. He can't help but laugh as Veneziano continues to cry. He feels better as his little brother hangs up still cursing the older Italian out. He collapses into the soft cotton sheets again with a smile on his face as he wills himself to get up. No such luck, and he ends up drifting off while listening to the sound of birds singing outside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: same as before. None, apart from Romano being Romano.

It’s gone noon by the time he finally decides he should drag himself out of bed. So much for getting up earlier, and taking a look around. The soft cotton sheets are nice and cool, but he can’t just lay around all day, well, he could, but the Tea-Bastard probably wouldn't be too happy about it if he did. He turns onto his back trying to remember his dream. Something about a mysterious house surrounded by a dense forest in the middle of nowhere. He was being chased down the long, seemingly never-ending halls, and no matter how many secret hidden rooms he tried to hide in whatever had been following him always managed to catch up to, and find him in the end. 

He’s sure it’s England’s Yorkshire manor that had influenced his dream. Even though the house is surrounded by fields and not forest. The fear-fuelled adrenaline he’d felt seemed so real at the time he’d woken up panicked unsure of what was going on. He probably should get up now. The blond nation will most likely be awake already since it’s gone lunchtime. He’s not sure what England has planned for the day, if anything, but he’d still like to explore a bit if he can. 

Unpacking his suitcase should probably be his main priority after taking a shower, and throwing some food together. He’s got the next two weeks to explore as much as he wants, and regardless of it being England’s house there’s no chance he’s going to risk letting the blond cook - not after all the horror stories he’s heard. The old plank floor is uneven, and he stumbles a little as he stands from the bed still a little foggy from just waking up and the intense dream he’d had. Where are his clothes? Walking around the bed to the door there’s something soft under his feet. A long Persian style rug, and on the edge of it discarded in a heap are his clothes from yesterday. He puts them on, and opens up all the heavy curtains flooding the dim room with glorious sunlight. He’d been worried after the weather in London that it would rain during his entire trip, but thankfully it’s a beautiful day not a single cloud anywhere in sight. 

The brunet makes his way back to the far side of the bed throwing his suitcase up onto the rumpled covers to select his outfit for the day. If it’s going to be dry and sunny then maybe a light shirt and capri pants, or would shorts be better? It’s kind of cool in the room despite the heavy midday sun, and a light breeze brushes past his face, even though the windows and exterior doors are tightly shut. There’s no way a house this old could possibly have AC. There are vents in the walls up by the ceiling and down by the skirting-boards, but if the place does have air conditioning it’s not on. He reaches down waving a tanned hand in front of the small opening by the bed to make sure. No breeze. No air movement at all.

He gets up from the floor to open up the glass doors on the far wall by the bay window. Sure enough there’s an enclosed balcony (all solid stone from the tiled floor to the large columns holding up the roof above) overlooking a secluded water-garden surrounded by tall conifer hedges. There’s a beautiful three-tiered fountain with fish (they look like koi, maybe) at the centre surrounded by a white gravel path, and various borders filled with bushes. To the left of the water garden is a small lawn with a few cast iron benches separated from the gravel driveway by a low sandstone wall. He hadn't realised how huge the manor and the grounds surrounding it actually are. There are fields off in the distance up in the hills, but they look as if they’re down in a deep valley from this vantage point. The Tea-Bastard must have picked the highest hill in the area to build this house on. He would have done the same. It’s a really nice view. He leans against the rough stone of the balustrade a feeling of calm washing over him as he watches the livestock and horses graze and snooze under the heavy sun. 

Leaving the doors open to let in what little breeze there is the brunet heads back inside the guest room. There might not be an ensuite, but the private balcony and relaxing view is really nice, and the bathroom is literally across the hall, so at least he won't get lost looking for it. It’s hot, and the air is still, but the occasional breeze that does blow in from outside is kind of cold, so he picks out a white t-shirt and a pair of tanned capri pants instead of the shorts, and a zip-up hoodie. Just in case. He doesn't want to be caught out like yesterday. Folding the desired clothes over his arm the Italian grabs his bag of essentials, and heads for the bathroom to shower and change. 

He knocks a couple of times to make sure the blond isn't in there. After receiving no response he tries the handle finding it unlocked. The dark mahogany door is a stark contrast to the light cream interior of the bathroom. Even the inside of the door is painted cream. He flips the light switch making the whole room sparkle under the intense spotlights. The first thing he sees is the large intricately carved gold-leaf mirror sitting over the sink. Little glass wall lamps either side of it.

The entire room is fitted from floor to ceiling - there isn't an inch of empty space yet it still feels open and spacious. The white marble sink is surrounded by sand-coloured granite countertops and light wood paneling as is the bath to his left, and the large vanity on the opposite side of the room to his right. The shower is enclosed in a separate stone-tile wet room adjoining the bath, and just like the rest of the house the counters are adorned with various decorative pieces such as vases, scented candles, and crystal bowls of potpourri. It’s probably one of the fanciest bathrooms he’s seen. How the fuck can the island nation own such a nice house and not even live in it? Spain was the same years ago. Fucking imperialist bastards and their lavish homes. 

He locks the door, places his clothes down on the stool in front of the counter (careful not to crease them), and strips down. The heavy spray of the power shower is bliss against his aching muscles as all the tension he’d built up from the long journey is washed away. He positively melts under the delightfully warm water. He lingers under the shower spray not wanting to move, but eventually his grumbling stomach becomes too insistent to ignore. Reluctantly turning off the water the Italian slides open the glass door. A cloud of steam escapes kicking on the extractor fan. He grabs a towel off of the rack, dries up, and gets changed for the day ahead, or what’s left of it. He discards his dirty clothes on the floor of the guest room, closes up the balcony doors, and heads down the hall towards the stairwell. 

It takes a while to find the kitchen again, but when he does he finds England already in there sat reading a newspaper at the round oak breakfast table by the bay windows with a mug of tea in hand. The Brit looks up from his reading and greets the brunet with a smile, folding up the paper, and placing it down on the wooden surface. 

“Afternoon.”

“H-hi.” He sits down on a stool at the island counter not really sure what to say. 

“I take it you found yourself a room alright?” He’s no grammar expert, so he’s not going to criticise the blond, but even with his near-basic knowledge of the English language he’s pretty sure the man just butchered it.

“U-um..Y-yeah.” He feels stupid. “...A-are you hungry, Bastard?”

“A little. I popped down the shop earlier to get some things for breakfast. I wasn't sure what you’d prefer, so I grabbed a bit of everything I could find.” The very thought of England going food shopping unsupervised scares the shit out of him. He makes his way from the counter to check the fridge. Thankfully there doesn't seem to be anything apocalyptic inside, though it’s what’s missing that worries him more than anything. Eggs, milk, some cheese slices, a pack of ham slices, a pack of bacon, butter…Not a single fruit or vegetable in sight.

“Is it okay if I make something?” He had no problem talking with the Englishman in the car earlier, so why the hell is he so lost for words now? 

“If you want to I don't mind.” He’s not really sure what to make with the ingredients there are, but the blond had gone out of his way to buy them, so he may as well throw something together since he’s hungry anyway. 

“Have you got a frying pan somewhere? I can probably make an omelette with what’s here.” But not a lot else. He keeps the thought to himself. The blond pauses to think for a second.

“There should be one around somewhere. Do you want to check the cupboards over there? I’ll take a look around over here.” He nods closing the fridge.

“Can I...Make a drink first?” Why the hell is he so nervous? The blond has been more than welcoming to him. He needs to relax.

“Of course. You don't need to ask.” The host nation gets up from the table to retrieve a cup for the Italian’s drink while Romano prepares the water and boils the kettle trying to do as the blond said, and make himself at home. England grabs a couple of slices of bread from the small half loaf they’d bought much earlier that morning, and places them in the toaster. He’s got some reservations about letting the blond touch any kind of kitchen appliance, but surely even he can't fuck up something as simple as toast. He sips at his horrible watered down instant coffee while the blond begins the hunt for the fryingpan searching the various cupboards, but not seeming to find what he’s looking for. 

The atmosphere in the kitchen had been relaxed and calm, until the blond pulled out a box of tea bags that had to be at least thirty years old. The cardboard is warped and discoloured, so he quickly snatches it off the other man before he gets any ideas about keeping it, and disposes of it into the metal pedal bin with a grimace. 

Encouraged by his discovery England reaches further back inside the cupboard with more interest, and retrieves some kind of round biscuit tin. The brunet hovers hesitantly over the taller man’s shoulder. The blond pulls up the lid with a ‘pop’ revealing something that looks like a very moldy and misshapen loaf of bread. The overwhelming feeling of fear and dread as the blond places the tin on the counter to get a better look at the contents is indescribable. 

England claims the grotesque lump is some kind of fruitcake. He’s not convinced, but the blond assures him it definitely is. The Tea-Bastard pokes at the blob a couple of times with a pale finger before stating that it’s still perfectly edible, and he honestly thought the other was joking at first, but no, that messed up fucker is totally serious. That ‘cake’ is at least thirty years old, at least, so there is no fucking way it’s edible, especially if England had made it. He’s got no desire to find out if the so-called cake is edible or not, and it too ends up in the bin much to the dismay of the other nation. 

The smell of something burning fills the air, and he lets out a curse under his breath. He should have known better than to place any kind of faith in the blond - Veneziano had warned him, Spain had warned him, fuck, even Prussia; that Albino-Potato, had warned him. A ‘ping’ alerts the two to the toaster on the far counter, and he makes the horrifying realisation that the smoke alarm in England's fancy kitchen doesn't work, because there’s a very obvious lack of noise coming from the thing. It was when the blond got up from the floor to retrieve the smoking mess from the machine and began to eat it that Romano finally lost it. He grabbed the charred bread from the Brit ditching it the bin, and banned the other nation from even entering the kitchen unsupervised for the rest of the time the brunet is staying with him. 

He’s not going to die because of the English bastard’s lack of culinary skills. He tells the blond to help him find the frying pan which they eventually do hidden away behind a stack of saucepans, and then to watch, and only watch, so Romano can teach the walking kitchen disaster how to properly prepare a meal that won't potentially kill anyone trying to eat it.

It quickly becomes pretty obvious that despite his inability to even prepare something as simple as toast England is extremely enthusiastic when it comes to cooking. The man can hardly stand still watching with absolute focus as the Italian flits around the room gathering the necessary equipment for their omelette. That’s probably the problem, he thinks, the blond is too enthusiastic. That’s probably why he fucks everything up. 

“Bastard can you get the milk and eggs?” While the blond is busy fetching the ingredients Romano grabs the sunflower oil from the counter. The Brit should of gotten olive oil instead, but he’s not going to be picky. He’s amazed England even thought to buy any in the first place. 

He sets up the frying pan over the hob pouring in a little oil to evenly coats the entire pan. The necessary ingredients are placed down on the counter beside him peridot eyes watching the pan with interest. He can't help but laugh a little. “It’s not going to do anything. I haven't even turned the heat on yet.” England’s face immediately flushes red as he turns away from the stove. 

“I know that! What else do you need?” 

“A jug of some kind, or a large bowl for mixing stuff.” The other nation nods, and checks the cupboards returning a few minutes later with a small plastic mixing bowl.

“Will this do?” Oh god, the childlike wonder in the blond’s eyes is just too much. He really hasn't got a fucking clue, has he? Damn it. The southern nation turns the hob on low to warm the oil giving the clueless man a small nod. 

“Y-yeah that’s fine. So now we’ve got the necessary stuff. What kind of filling do you want in it? We’ve got bacon, ham, and cheese, right?” He’s got a feeling he already knows exactly what the blond will choose.

“Is bacon and cheese alright with you?” He bites the inside of his cheek trying to fight back the laugh threatening to escape. Just like he thought. The family resemblance between the Tea and Burger Bastards is so obvious. 

“Yeah, that’s...That’s fine. Can you get them?” England once again heads to the fridge to fetch the needed ingredients, and places them down beside Romano on the counter. Has anyone ever taken the time to try and teach the blond how to cook? The thought is a little depressing. He obviously wants to learn. England continues to stare at the pan in fascination. Fuck it. If no one else is willing to teach the man he might as well try, right?

“Bastard, I need you to cut up the bacon, okay? Think you can do that?” This is probably a really bad idea, but a couple of simple lessons should help. It’s not like the blond could be any worse. He grabs a knife from the draw beside the sink, and hands it to the baffled nation. He’s going to regret letting the other man ‘help’, but he feels sorry for the bastard. He’s got such a terrible reputation when it comes to the kitchen, and if no one is willing to guide him then how the hell is he supposed to improve?

“O-of course I can.” The uncertainty in the island nation’s voice is heartbreaking. He might not have any culinary skills, but at least the blond is hygienic - he automatically moves to the sink to wash his hands before taking a couple of slices from the packet, and places them down on the cutting board. He watches as England nervously takes the knife and begins to chop up the bacon. 

The kitchen is eerily quiet the small sounds of the oil popping and the soft clatter of the knife against the wooden cutting board breaking the awkward silence. He reassures the blond telling him to cut some of the pieces down a bit smaller so they’re roughly the same size, otherwise they’ll cook at different rates. He’s not sure exactly sure why the blond had been so nervous. Maybe he knows he’s no good at cooking, and doesn't want to fuck up in front of the Italian? Whatever the reason he seems a little more relaxed now as he chops away, even though the pieces are kind of a mess.

With England preoccupied he takes a minute to check over the ingredients trying to calculate how much of everything he needs to make enough for the both of them. They haven't got any spices or onions, so it’s going to be a very bland meal, but that’s probably better in this situation. He doesn't want to risk over-complicating things for the man behind him.

A couple of minutes pass, and the Brit finishes dicing up the bacon. Some of the pieces are still a little big, and others a bit too small, but it’ll do for now. England is an attentive student, so he doesn't want to discourage him by nitpicking over tiny details just yet. One step at a time. Getting the blond to make something edible is the main obstacle. Once he’s past that milestone the Italian can focus on teaching more complex things like taste, and portions, and balance. He turns up the heat and uses the knife to slide the bacon into the pan. The fat sizzles and pops as it hits the hot metal making the blond step back as it spits. With the uneven bacon chunks sizzling away in the pan he makes a start on the eggs while keeping a close eye on England and the stove.

He cracks open two eggs into the bowl, and adds a splash of milk after checking for any loose pieces of shell that may have fallen into the mix. Satisfied he turns his attention back to the Englishman, and the fast cooking bacon. “Turn down the heat now, Bastard. See how it’s changed colour and shape? That means it’s nearly done. If you cook it the whole way through now it’ll be burnt by the time we add the eggs.” 

“Ah, right. That makes sense. So, now what?” Now the eggs and milk need beating, so he shows the blond what to do as the other man washes his hands to get rid of the bacon grease before letting the Englishman try for himself. He’s surprisingly good at whisking, so the southern nation leaves the Brit to it, and places the cutting board into the sink. He grabs another knife from the draw to slices up some of the cheese slices into smaller pieces. He’s not convinced they’ve ever seen a cow. The rubbery texture reminds him of the plastic shit at America’s place. Most of it will probably melt away into the omelette, so he’s not even sure they’ll even be able to actually taste it. He takes the pack of cheese ripping it open as the Brit watches on. It’s very domestic and mundane, but he’s kind of enjoying teaching the blond how to cook. England seems to be enjoying himself too judging by the small smile on his face as he bites his lip in concentration. Pfft, idiot. 

Once the milk and eggs are thoroughly mixed he takes the bowl, and instructs the blond to use the spatula to separate out the pile of bacon chunks in the pan so they're evenly spread around, and not just in a lump in the centre. The fascinated nation watches carefully as Romano pours the yellow mixture over the layer of bacon making the pan hiss and spit again. The sparkle in those peridot orbs is adorable. He’s never seen anyone look so excited just from watching some eggs cook. He takes back the spatula and turns up the heat again. The mix quickly begins to cook forming a solid base at the bottom of the pan, so he pokes it slightly to stop the edges from sticking, and to check the consistency. 

“Okay, it’s nearly done. See how it’s still kind of uncooked on the top?” A nod. “Now we add the cheese so it’ll melt in. If you let the omelette cook too much now it’ll just make a layer on the top, and the taste will be really - ” He’s not sure what to say. Bad? Boring? Plain? “-Plain.” The blond grabs the cut-up cheese slices spreading them over the surface of the omelette. He turns the heat up a little more carefully watching the mixture. Once the cheese is melting Romano folds the half-cooked omelette in half telling the blond to get the knife and a couple of plates. He lets the omelette cook a little more before flipping it over for a second to brown, and finally decides it’s done. 

He removes the frying pan from the hob placing it down on one of the unused rings then cuts the meal in half down the middle. England stands there in anticipation holding out his plate like an expectant child. He gives the blond his portion biting back a smile of his own, and watches the taller man make his way back to the breakfast table putting aside his now cold mug of tea. The Italian turns off the stove, plates-up his own serving, and joins the island nation at the table. There’s already a knife and fork set out for him on the opposite side.

“It smells delicious. Thank you!” His heart breaks again at the thought of the pale man considering such a simple and bland meal as delicious, but he nods, and takes an experimental bite. It’s definitely not delicious. Aside from the bacon it’s pretty tasteless, but it’s the best they could do with such basic ingredients. At least it’s perfectly cooked. If not a little...Lumpy, but he’s sure the blond will learn in time. England doesn't seem to care about the bland taste though (which is a little worrying), and happily stuffs his face. He’s reminded again of the Brit's ‘little brother’ across the Atlantic, and has to wonder if either of them realize how similar they are. 

The soft sounds of birds and animals outside flows in through the open windows as the pair eat. The younger nation is long since done with his breakfast, and places his plate and cutlery into the sink. The blond begins to clean up the kitchen as he waits for the Italian to finish. He‘s lost in his own thoughts. He wants to teach England how to cook real food. Proper meals with actual flavour using good ingredients. He can't shake off the other man’s words. “It smells delicious”. If he considers this kind of quick-fix meal delicious then what has the island nation been eating up until now? It’s probably better to not even think about it. 

Stuffing the last of the omelette in his mouth in agitation he puts his plate, knife and fork in the sink alongside the rest of the dirty dishes and cookware. Half the day is already gone, so maybe he should just drag the blond out to go ingredient shopping. The weather’s too nice to just sit around inside, and they haven't got anything for dinner anyway. “You know, Bastard. If we had some more ingredients I can show you how to make some other stuff. I'm kind of limited with what’s here.” No shit. The blond must know they can't really survive on what they’ve currently got, right? So food shopping has to be a priority before anything else. His list of ‘priorities’ is getting pretty long...

England’s eyes are the size of saucers as he stands there leaning back against the countertop in apparent disbelief. Had the blond seriously not thought about what they’re supposed to eat for the next two weeks? He looks the other nation up and down. He’s kind of scrawny now that the brunet takes a proper look at him. His muscles have a little definition, but his frame if definitely smaller than he remembers. Does he not eat much? That would kind of explain the nation’s baffled expression. Come to think of it he hardly ate anything at the motorway diner earlier that morning. Admittedly the food had been really bad, (he hadn't wanted to eat it either) and Romano had eaten the blond’s share of fries. Did England eat his burger? No, damn it, he’d eaten that too.

“You’d willingly try to teach me? Really?” Oh. Well, okay, that makes more sense. He’s kind of shocked at himself too. Still, the Brit’s lanky disposition has him curious. England was an empire. He’d fought fiercely against older, richer, more influential nations like Spain and France, and won. He remembers when he was just a brat living at northern Iberian’s home. The man often told him war stories about the blond’s ferocity in battle as he cleaned and bandaged his former boss’ wounds. He’d seen a little of it himself during the war after he’d switched sides. It’s hard to believe that the fragile looking form gazing back at him so curiously from by the counter is the same man from all those stories.

“Romano?” Crap. He’d gotten distracted again.

“Y-Yeah, I mean why not? I-if you want to.” He’s not sure why he’s so fucking embarrassed, but his cheeks feel warm as the blond looks at him. The man’s own pale cheeks now a rosey-red. 

“I - That is...What I mean - Bloody hell.” The blond’s blush darkens as he turns his face away trying to hide. He’s not sure why the man is so flustered, but it's making him embarrassed too, damn it. “Th-thank you.” Shy peridots glance his way for a second, but England looks away again as soon as their eyes meet.

Fuck. His own face is on fire. “Y-yeah. Don't mention it...Y-you’re welcome. I guess.” A stagnant pause. “We’re going to need more ingredients though. I’m good, Bastard, but there’s only so much even I can do with what’s here.” The island nation rolls his eyes, but laughs.

“We need some bits for dinner, so we can head to the supermarket, or get a take-away. There’s also a farmer’s market on tomorrow if you don't mind making due ‘til then. It’s a monthly event so we may as well go and see what it’s like.” He weighs up the options. The supermarket is more convenient, and he’s not sure what to expect from an English market. He definitely doesn't want take-out, so whatever they do they’ll need to head to the supermarket to get food for tonight anyway. What if they get some stuff for dinner and breakfast tomorrow, and then go to the market? If he doesn't find anything there they can head to the supermarket on their way back to the manor and grab everything they need. He poses his plan to the blond who agrees. He’s still not sure about going to the market, but England seems keen to go, and if the weather’s nice it’ll beat being stuck indoors all day. 

“Alright.” The blond checks his phone. “We should probably head out soon. I don't fancy spending the rest of the day stuck in a supermarket. They tend to get a bit packed right before the weekend.” That actually sounds fucking horrible, especially with the nice weather outside.

“Okay. I'll get my shoes.” 

“I’ll grab my keys and meet you in the car.” 

“Hold on a minute. What about this?” He points to the stack of dirty dishes filling the sink. From the look on the other nation’s face he’d completely forgotten about it. The blond scrunches up his nose at the pile, and then turns to head towards the kitchen doorway.

“It’s fine. Just leave it until we get back. If we don't leave soon there won't be anything left.” He’s not really one for cleaning up himself, but he doesn't want to come back to a house full of flies. England turns and walks out of the kitchen not giving the stack of cookware another thought as he leaves. He hears the sound of the heavy front door click open and then shut. The dishes aren't going to wash themselves, but the blond is waiting for him so they can go to the store. Damn it. He steps away from the counter and heads towards the kitchen doorway before turning back to look at the sink of dirty cookware. A huff escapes from deep in his chest as he rolls up his sleeves heading back over to the counter to turn on the hot water.

When England reappears he’s already done with the washing up, and is busy drying the dishes. He doesn't notice the blond until he hears a shuffling noise coming from the doorway behind him. The smile on the Tea-Bastard’s face is fucking irritating. He throws the man a frown, and places the plate in his hand down in the drying rack.

“Shut the fuck up, Bastard.” The frying pan is grabbed from the sink, and he rinses it under some cold water before starting to dry it with the soft tea towel. Still glaring intently at the blond as he rubs away at the pan trying to ignore the heat pooling on his flushed cheeks. 

“I never said a word.”

“You didn't fucking have to. Just shut up and help me with this, okay? And then we can go.” He might not be that great when it comes to organising shit like the Potato-Bastard, but if there’s one thing he can't stand it’s a dirty kitchen. There’s no way he could have gone out and enjoyed himself ingredient shopping knowing there’d be a pile of stuff that would need cleaning as soon as they got back.

The island nation says nothing. He’s not sure what the pale man finds so amusing, but it makes the Italian irritated just looking at him. He turns his attention back to the sink so he doesn't have to face the blond. The clattering of dishes fills the room as England puts the frying pan and plates back in their proper places while the mediterranean nation dries the mixing bowl.

It’s kind of nice having someone help with the dishes. It’s been awhile since the last time Spain had visit, and as stupid as it sounds he kind of misses having someone around. He shouldn't be getting sentimental. He’d been the one who had decided to move out. Veneziano had pleaded with him not to, but he needed his own space. Living with his brother after all the stress of the war had been too claustrophobic. It’d be fucking stupid of him to suddenly start feeling lonely now. 

Something flutters past his face catching his attention. There’s a sudden strong smell of flowers coming from somewhere. A really heavy smell like perfume. The window above the sink is closed, and the dish soap is only lightly scented. He picks up the bottle of green liquid to check before placing it back down by the tap. There's a vase on the window ledge, but it’s empty, so he's not sure where the smell is coming from. A few white butterflies dance about above the flowers in the window-box outside, but even if they came right up to the glass they’d still be too far away to be whatever flew right under his nose. 

Maybe one got in from the bay window by the breakfast table? He casts his olive-green eyes around the kitchen, but spots nothing. He can't hear anything either, so it probably wasn't a fly. The flowery-smell is mostly gone now too. He can still smell a very light floral fragrance coming from England as he returns to the counter to grab the cutlery to put away, but it’s nothing like the heavy perfume he’d smelt a second ago.

He shrugs it off and dries his hands tossing the wet tea towel over the divide in the sink. While the blond is putting away the last of the cookware the Italian runs upstairs to grab a pair of shoes. The black loafers he’d worn yesterday wouldn't match his current outfit, so he’ll have to find something else. He grabs a pair of white sneakers from the side of his suitcase, and slips on some low cut socks before heading back down the hall to the staircase trying not to slip on the varnished wooden floor. He spots the Brit leaning against the railing at the bottom of the stairs. He looks pretty relaxed as he stands there absentmindedly playing with his keys. 

The old wood creaks as Romano makes his way down. England looks back, and the tanned man’s breath catches in his throat as those striking peridot orbs shine up at him. The bright rays of sunlight filtering in through the glass doors opposite the English nation illuminates the man’s pale skin perfectly. Outlining the man beautifully in the dim hallway. His usually dull mop of wheat coloured hair shines like gold. He looks like he’s glowing, and it takes the Italian’s breath away. The jangling of keys catches his ear breaking the moment as the blond grins up at him pushing himself away from the wooden rail. He rolls his eyes, and carries on down the stairs ignoring the temptation to smack the blond on the head with his shoes as he goes. 

It takes him the duration of the walk to the car to recover from the shock. He doesn't even remember putting on his sneakers, but he must of done at some point because they’re on his feet. He’s never considered England beautiful. He still doesn't. Looking at the man now with his scruffy hair and enormous dark eyebrows beautiful is definitely not the word he’d use to describe the blond. He’d been so picturesque in that moment though. Beautiful is the only word that comes to mind. He kind of wishes he’d taken a picture just to prove he hadn't imagined it. Actually that sounds pretty fucking stupid now that he thinks about it, and discards the thought from his mind as he climbs into the Brit’s old Bentley. 

The drive into town had started off peaceful. The radio had been playing quietly in the background, and the hot sun and nice view was making him sleepy. The Brit gave little bits of commentary about the local area and notable points in it’s history, but the peace had been shattered when another car came flying around a blind-bend completely cutting the corner. Luckily England had somehow already seen it coming and maneuvered out of the way up onto the grass bank making the old car protest loudly at the rough treatment. The other nation just shook his head at the ‘wanker’, and said something about reckless tourists not knowing the roads. He’d been gripping the door handle so hard his fingers actually hurt when he’d finally calmed down enough to let go. His face must have said it all because the island nation had asked if he was alright. 

He places the can of ‘Italian’ chopped tomatoes back down on the shelf, and turns to look at the jars of various sauces. He needs to stop working himself up over it, but the large SUV had just sped off - not even bothering to slow down. It pissed him off so much he’d been tense for the rest of the journey. Still is now, damn it.

He tries to distract himself from the argivating memory by inspecting various ‘Italian’ products. He rolls his eyes at the obvious marketing ploy. England is off in his own word chatting with a couple of locals, so he picks up the can of tomatoes again to occupy himself while he waits for the blond. He checks a few different cans searching for the variety of tomatoes used. He never expected to find actual San Marzano tomatoes in England. Now he’s going to have to buy a can, or two, just to see how they taste compared to the ones back home, but the Tea-Bastard has got the trolley and is still deep in conversation. 

Eventually the couple says goodbye, and the blond rejoins him with the trolley - all smiles, though he looks kind of tired. It’s been like that the entire time since they arrived, actually. The not-so-rainy nation’s people are pretty social. A complete contrast to the rumours he’s heard. Seriously, how the hell has the blond ended up with such a reputation? So far England has been pleasant to him, made him feel welcome and at home, and his people seem nice enough. He’s not at all the miserable bastard that Spain and France make him out to be, or maybe he is, and he’s luring the brunet into a trap. He scoffs. Yeah, okay.

Bright peridot orbs glance at him curiously as England places a couple of cans of ‘baked beans’ into the trolley. He doesn't even want to know what the man is planning on making with them, but whatever it is he’s not getting anywhere near it. Just as the taller man had said earlier the store soon starts to fill with people. The aisle is blocked on both sides in front of them. A desperate woman tries to calm her screaming son sitting in the trolley seat on one side. An elderly man who looks a little confused on the other. 

“Excuse me.” The blond’s tone is soft but firm. The young woman escorting the elderly man looks up apologetically trying to move him along so the two nations can get past, but he’s not too steady on his feet, and it takes the old man a few minutes to shuffle by. The exasperated mother to their left notices the movement behind her and pushes her trolley out of the way with an apology of her own. 

The kid reaches up grabbing a couple of packets of raisins from the shelf glaring at his mother as she tries to wrestle them back off him sending the boy into a fit of tears. The kid goes silent as England walks past letting go of the packs of dried fruits to stare up at the man’s shoulder. The child’s eyes silently track the nation as he goes, and Romano follows behind quickly not wanting to get caught up in another trolley jam. The boy reaches for the blond as he passes trying to grab hold of the nation, and England gives the kid a small smile as he walks by. The boy starts screaming at the top of his lungs still desperately trying to reach for the blond, and the kid’s mother does her best to shush him while apologising to everyone that looks her way. 

“Have you got everything you think you’ll need?” The trolley is tucked away to the side so it won't block the walkway. There’s some things he knows he didn't put in like the pack of blood pudding slices and packs of minced beef. The Brit looks away pretending to be innocent. The sneaky bastard must of snuck them in while he was distracted looking at ingredients. Three mysterious boxes marked O.X.O (one purple, one yellow, and one red) had also appeared at some point. There’s no indication on the packaging as to what’s in them, and the blond is still feigning ignorance, so he’s completely clueless about their contents. 

“Yeah, I guess. Let’s go.” The pair make a mad dash to an empty checkout before anyone else can beat them to it. The cashier smiles warmly as they arrive, and strikes up idle conversation with her home-nation while the Italian makes himself busy with unloading the trolley. The woman behind the till asks something. Shit. She’s talking to him. He’d completely missed what she said.

“Yes, please.” England comes to his rescue.

“How many do you want, dove?” Dove? A term of endearment? Must be, the island nation smiles asking for five bags a relaxed air around him. He finishes emptying the trolley and passes it to the blond joining him at the end of the check out.

“5 or 10p?” Now he’s completely lost.

“5p, please. I’ve already got more reusable bags than I know what to do with. Somehow I always manage to forget to bring them.” The woman passes the blond a few plastic shopping bags with a laugh.

“If I had a pound for every time I heard that!” She begins to scan their items sliding them down the metal ramp. The heavy glare of the fluorescent lights is draining, but he carefully packs away the ingredients not wanting to ruin any of them. The pale man packs away the items he’d selected into a separate bag placing it back into the trolley.

“That’s £23.90, altogether. Do you have a loyalty card?” England passes her a plastic card. The Italian puts the last bags into the trolley, and watches various people pass by while the blond pays for their shopping. 

There’s a couple of women standing by the large glass doors collecting donations for some kind of charity handing out little animal-shaped key-chains. The two nations must of passed them on the way in, but he hadn't noticed them until now. An older woman hands over a box of canned cat food to one of the women on her way out of the store. An animal charity? Romano’s always putting out food for the never ending horde of cats that gather around his place. He must have spent a small fortune on all the food and neutering bills he’s paid for over the years. Does the island nation have an issue with animals on the streets like in Italy…? 

“Oi Ingl-ah!” Fuck! He hadn't expected the blond to be right behind him. He’d almost called him by his national name too. What the hell is the Tea-Bastard’s civilian name again? (He’s not going to call him ‘bastard’ in the middle of a supermarket, damn it.) Veneziano had told him before he left, but he can't remember now. Shit. 

“Hm? What is it?” Now he feels like a fucking idiot. How is he supposed to talk to the blond in public if he doesn't even know the bastard’s fucking name? 

“No-nothing. Forget it. Let’s go.” He takes the trolley not giving the other man any time to protest, and heads towards the doors. 

The drive back is awkward and tense. Neither of them have said a word since getting back in the car, but that’s his own fault. The younger nation had tried to ask if he was alright as they were loading the bags, but he’d been too fucking embarrassed to think of anything to say, and ended up ignoring the blond. He doesn't know how to act around the ex-empire most of the time. England has been so fucking polite and welcoming to him that he doesn't want to do or say anything stupid and possibly offend the bastard. He wants to make a good impression, damn it. 

The stupidest part is that this whole thing had started over him wanting to do something nice and donate a can of cat food. He hadn't really thought about it before, but maybe he dodged a bullet? The Tea-Bastard might not like animals. He doesn't actually know anything about the man sitting beside him. What (very) little he does know is just what he’s heard about the Brit as a nation. He doesn't know anything about him as a person. Not even his name. Fuck, now he’s going around in circles. 

“Hey, Bastard…Do you own any, err...animals?” Ugh, his brain is melting. He can't even translate his thoughts into English anymore. 

“Animals? Pets you mean?” Right, that’s what he meant. ‘Pets’.

“Yeah, like a cat or a dog.” 

“I don't suppose this has anything to do with the collection at the supermarket does it?” Okay, what the fuck? He knows the blond is into weird supernatural shit (Veneziano had mentioned it quite a few times), but he can't read fucking minds...Right? 

“...N-no, Bastard. I was just curious.” The car goes silent for a moment before the Englishman speaks.

“Right...Well anyway. I do. I have a cat. Technically he’s America’s, but I’m looking after him for the moment.” Apparently America had adopted the cat from a shelter while sightseeing at the Brit’s place one time, but his apartment complex doesn't allow animals, so he’d left it behind in England for his former caretaker to take care of. 

The blond stops the car at an empty junction. The light is green, and there are no other cars in sight. England whips out his phone scrolling through it for a second before passing it to the Italian. “That’s him there.” He takes the phone looking at the picture. It’s America sitting on a couch (presumably at one of England’s homes) with his signature stupid grin and an adorable, fluffy white and grey kitten snoozing on his lap. 

“What’s his name?”

“Hero.”...Seriously? The blond laughs as he begins driving again another car coming up behind them. He feels kind of sorry for the poor creature having a name like that. It must be tough on England too. He couldn't imagine taking the animal to the vet. He’d be too fucking embarrassed to have to go in there, and have them call him in. He looks through some more photos finding a couple of more recent ones.

“This is him now? He’s huge!” The pale man groans a little under his breath, but laughs. How could such a tiny thing grow into such a fat blob? Okay, he’s a cute fat blob with his grey ruff and big fluffy tail, but it can’t be healthy to be that big.

“Most of that is actually his coat. He’ll have to be trimmed again soon if the weather stays like this.” There’s no way in hell that’s all just fur. “What about you? Do you have any pets?” He passes the blond his phone as they stop at a traffic light. He’s never had a pet of his own. He’d kind of adopted some of Spain’s cats while he was living with him, but never actually owned one. 

“No. Do you have a lot of animals on the streets here?” He’d been wondering about it since he saw the collection at the supermarket. He hadn't seen any when they’d gone to the store, but that was only on the outskirts of the town.

“Somewhat. Strays are an issue, but most people here have their animals neutered, so we don't have anything like the large feral colonies or packs of wild dogs like you have in Italy. The bigge-” Whatever he was going to say the blond decides to keep it to himself, and changes the topic back to the Italian stating that he never knew the brunet is such an animal-lover. Yeah well, there’s probably a lot of things the blond doesn't know about him. That thought is actually really reassuring. He’d been freaking out over not knowing anything about the other man, but it’s the same for him too. He doesn't really know anything about the Italian either. Maybe that’s why he’s been so polite to him? He doesn't want to risk accidentally upsetting the southern half-nation? 

He lets the conversation drop. Animal welfare is obviously a bit of a tender subject for the blond judging by the way he’s frowning and tightly gripping the steering wheel, so he asks the mysterious bastard what they’re going to do when they get back to the manor. He already knows what he’ll be doing; preparing dinner, but he’s not sure if England is thinking about ‘helping’ or not. He kind of hopes not. He’d be planning on making the Brit a meal to thank him for being a good host (and to keep it that way). The other man already has plans for the evening though, thankfully, something about ‘letting loose’ on the garden…

By the time they get back to the manor the heavy afternoon sun is beating down scorching anything unfortunate enough to be out in it. A wall of heat haze blankets the horizon like a shroud making everything look fuzzy and out of focus. The Tea-Bastard is obviously doing his best to appear like it’s not bothering him, but he’s definitely uncomfortable. His face is flushed and he’s more than just a little irritable despite trying to act like he’s not. It’s definitely too hot for the pale man to go outside, so he’d reluctantly agreed to wait in the living room under the cool blast of the ceiling fan while the Italian unloaded the car and began making them both dinner.

He struggles to balance his phone against his ear as he gently stirs the simmering mixture on the stove. Spain had called just after they got back from the store to find out how he’s doing. Their conversation earlier had been a bit strained, but he’s glad the bastard called. He’s not sure what had been bothering the man that morning, but whatever it was the older nation sounds fine now, so it can't have been important. At least he can always count on the Tomato-Bastard. He tells his friend that he’s fine, and busy with making dinner while keeping an eye on the nation in the other room. The Iberian man just laughs at the poor bastard’s suffering, and then carries on to tell the Italian about what he’s been up to the last few days. Which wasn't a lot. Just work, and dealing with the usual flood of sun-seeking tourists. 

“Everyone’s complaining. It’s raining here right now.” 

“Yeah? That sucks.” He tries a spoonful to check the taste, and then leans back against the counter. “It was raining pretty bad in London yesterday, but it’s fine here.”

“That damned, Eyebrows! I bet he sent it to my place just to spite me!” He rolls his eyes not that Spain can see it. He’d planned on making something a bit more fancy to treat the blond to thank him for his hospitality, but he probably wouldn't be able to handle anything heavy right now with the way he’s currently collapsed on the sofa. He can't really see the island nation well from here - just a pale arm dangling limply over the armrest.

“Roma?” 

“Hold on a minute.” 

“What’s up?”

“Just wait a second. I need to make sure the Tea-Bastard is still alive.”

He creeps closer to the room to check. The blond is curled up into a ball with his head resting on one arm the other still hanging limply over the edge of the sofa. He can't see the man’s face from this angle though, so he’s got no clue if he’s conscious or not. Spain says something down the phone. He ignores it lowering the device from his ear so he can listen out for any signs of movement or breathing, but the constant hum of the fan drowns out anything else. He takes a few more steps towards the blond, and can faintly hear the sound of England talking softly to himself almost like he’s whispering. 

The island nation turns to look back at him as the Italian leans over the back of the sofa. His eyes are foggy showing obvious signs of fatigue. He’s definitely overheated. His naturally pale face is stained bright red.

“H-hey, Bastard.” England watches him silently waiting for the brunet to say something. Ah, fuck. What is he supposed to say? “Dinner should be ready soon, so - Don't fall asleep, damn it!”

“I’m not.” He would have believed it if it wasn't so obvious that the blond was starting to doze off as he was talking. 

“Yeah, right. Just don't. Thirty minutes, Bastard.” 

The man nods. He’s not convinced, but heads back towards the kitchen anyway. At least the blond hadn't passed out. That would have been a pain in the ass. It’s then he remembers the other man on the phone. Spain is chuckling away apparently having heard the whole thing, and he’s pretty sure he heard his former boss call the Tea-Bastard “so cute” just a second ago, but there's no way, right? He hadn't really been paying attention, so he’d probably just misheard the bastard or something. Spain is always talking shit. The food is done, so he turns down the heat to keep it warm, and checks the pan of olive oil and garlic on the other ring. The crushed cloves are beginning to brown so he lowers the heat leaving it to simmer gently. 

Spain continues to talk away to himself as the Italian lines a roasting pan with a thin layer of olive oil. He grabs the brown paper bag of crusty rolls the two nations had bought from the supermarket, and puts them on the pan placing it into the oven to warm. They won't take long, so he might as well start on dessert while he waits. He holds the phone between his ear and shoulder again digging around in the draw by the sink for a small knife, and grabs a couple of glass ice cream bowls from the cabinet above his head. 

England is fond of the soft fruits and berries that grow at his place (he remembers the blond telling him as they browsed the fridges at the store) as well as blueberries, so he grabs the punnet of mixed summer berries placing it down on the counter beside him for later. He prefers the crisp bite of citrus fruits himself, so he grabs the kiwis and oranges he’d bought as well as a couple of lemons. The island nation doesn't own a juicer, so he’ll have make due without. All of the ingredients are moved over to the countertop by the stove so he can keep a close eye on the pan of olive oil on the stove and the rolls in the oven.

“Roma are you even listening to me?”

“No, Bastard I'm just standing here holding the phone for no reason. Of course I am, idiot! Why don't you try calling him, instead of bitching to me?”

“I did, but for some reason he’s not answering his phone!”

“I don't know. It’s France. Who cares?” He’s not really paying that much attention. All his focus is on preparing his and England's food. He slices up the kiwi, and separates the orange segments as Spain continues to whine at him from the other end of the phone. 

“Roma, don't be mean. Francia is my oldest friend.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He really doesn't give a shit. France is a fucking dick.

“Roma you’re not really listening are you?” The mixing bowl he’d used for their omelette must be around somewhere. He’d seen it earlier. It takes a couple of minutes of searching various cupboards, and he eventually finds it tossed in with the saucepans.

“I told you I am. What the hell do you want me to say? If the bastard’s not answering his phone he’s probably just busy.” The lemons are cool to the touch from being in the fridge as he rolls them on the counter to get the juices flowing. He’s starting to feel a little too hot in the intense warmth of the kitchen. The heat from the oven and stove-top is making the already uncomfortable room kind of unbearable. He’d opened all the windows and the doors leading to the deck outside earlier, but the air is completely still. The overhead ceiling fan is only blowing around the warm air from inside the kitchen, and not really doing anything to help cool the room at all.

Juggling the phone on his shoulder and the slippery lemons is a real pain, and he accidentally hits the speaker button. The sudden rise in volume makes him jump as he cuts one of the lemons in half squirting bit of juice up onto his face. He drops the phone and it hits the counter with a loud crash. “Shit.” 

Spain’s frantic shouting fills the air, but there’s not a lot he can do about it at the moment though since his hands are covered in the sticky liquid. He rinses his hands, and tells the Tomato-Bastard the crash was him dropping the phone. The rolls and garlic infused olive oil should both be done by now. The knife is put down, and the warmed bread safely removed from the oven. He turns off the heat to both rings on the stove, and places the sauce pan of olive oil by the window to cool before returning to cutting and squeezing as much of the juice from the lemons into the mixing bowl as he can. It’s easier not having to try and juggle the phone, so he leaves the Tomato-Bastard on speaker while he finishes preparing dessert.

“I think I might go visit him. Francia always answers my calls. Something is definitely wrong.”

“You could, but he probably won't be there.”

“Why do you say that?”

He adds a few heaped tablespoons of sugar to the bowl of sour juice before tossing in the slices of fruit, and pouring in the mixed berries from the punnets into the large bowl. Swirling it a little to help the sugar dissolve and cover the fruits. He dips his finger into the mix to taste it. The sweetness of the sugar is a little too overpowering for him, but he hasn't got anymore lemon to balance it back out. Fuck it. That’s what he gets for trying to cook while on the phone. He’s not paying enough attention to what he’s doing too busy listening to the Tomato-Bastard complain about shit. 

“Damn it, Bastard I almost forgot to add some banana!” Grabbing one from the bunch in the otherwise empty fruit bowl he makes quick work of peeling and slicing it before adding it to the mixture. With dessert complete the large bowl is placed in the fridge to cool. 

“Roma what were you saying about Francia?” England doesn't seem to have any proper soup plates. A regular bowl will work, but it doesn't really look that great. Che. If it’s all there is it’ll have to do. He grabs the ladle and places a couple of servings from the saucepan of vegetables into each bowl adding a finishing garnish of fresh parsley leaves straight from the plant on the window ledge.

“He text the Tea-Bastard yesterday. He’s going to drop by here before going to visit the Bastard’s brother, or something.” England doesn't seem to own any dipping saucers or a bread basket either which is kind of a pain the ass. He has an abundance of regular tea cup saucers, but they’re a bit too shallow to use for dipping oil. He’ll just have to improvise. There must be something he can use for the rolls somewhere. After a bit of searching he finds a roll of greaseproof paper tucked away in a draw with some cooling racks and other baking equipment. Taking another bowl from the cabinet he lines it with paper and carefully stacks a couple of the rolls inside.

“I'm serving the food now.”

“What did you make? Whatever it is it smells delicious!”

He’s lucky the stupid idiot can't see him through the phone. He bites back the smile, and checks the pan of olive oil placing the lid back on top so nothing can fly into it through the open window. It’s still a little warm, but by the time he’s served everything, and called the island nation to eat it should be cool enough.

“Moron you can't smell it through the phone. Anyway, it’s caponata.”

“I don't need too! Your food is always very delicious. Sicilian style?”

“Yeah, and fruit salad for dessert. Seriously, I need to go before the Rain-Bastard falls asleep again.”

“Yeah, Inglaterra doesn't cope very well in the summer, even at his place. Okay, I'm going to try Francia again. Roma, if you speak to him before I do can you let him know I've been trying to call?”

“Yeah, alright. Speak to you tomorrow, Bastard.” 

“Bye! Take care, corazón. Enjoy your dinner! Speak to you soon!” He rolls his eyes ignoring the endearment, but wishes the idiot well, and ends the call. How Spain has so much energy he’ll never know. He gets tired just talking to the bastard. He opens the glass doors to the dining room, and begins to ferry the various bowls to the table. Red wine is necessary for any proper meal, so he grabs a couple of glasses from the cabinet and sets them down on the table. He’d bought a nice vintage with him from Italy to present to the blond as a gift, but he’d been too nervous at the airport, and by the time they’d reached the manor he'd been too exhausted and forgotten all about it. He’d feel stupid trying to give it to the man now, so they might as well enjoy it with their meal. 

He hopes the blond enjoys the food. It’s a traditional Sicilian recipe, and one of his personal favourites. He’s not sure about the taste himself. It doesn't have that kick to it that it should have, but English supermarkets don't seem to stock capperi or pinoli. He’ll have to ask at some point because a lot of the recipes he’d planned on making for the island nation require one or both ingredients, and he’s not sure if he can get by without them. Today had been an exception, because time was passing, and the Tea-Bastard needs to eat before he really does pass out...And because the shiny ripe aubergines had called to him as soon as he saw them in the store, but, yeah, mainly because the blond needs to eat.

It takes a few more minutes to finish getting everything set up. The dining room is surprisingly cool compared to the stifling heat of the kitchen, so he makes sure to close the doors adjoining the two rooms to stop the heat from filtering out. The rolls are still warm on the surface, but are cooling quickly, so hopefully the dipping oil has cooled enough by now too. He’d found an old Turkish-style coffee set in one of the cabinets. He’s pretty sure he remembered someone mentioning that the English nation doesn't drink coffee, so that’s probably why it was hidden away, but then why even have it in the first place? The small bowl from the set is exactly what he needs for the dipping oil though, so he cleaned it, poured in some of the cooled dip, and set it out on the table alongside his makeshift bread basket. 

He switches on the ceiling fan to get the air moving, and heads through the archway leading to the living room. Still laid out on the sofa the English nation leans his head back over the edge of the armrest to look at him.

“The food’s done, Bastard, so come eat.” Like lightning the blond is up off the sofa, and marching towards the dining room. Pfft, the bastard must be hungry. Good.

“Thank you! I can't wait.” He’s not blushing. Definitely not. Damn it. If he knew the bastard was going to be so fucking happy about the food he would have put together something fancier. At least it’s an actual meal, and not just a quick fix throw together like breakfast. They’ll be able to wash it down with some good wine too if it doesn't taste right. It’s not like he’s not confident about the taste. His food is the best in the world. The meals from his place might not be that complex compared to stuff from his brother’s, or France, but at least the flavours can't be beaten. 

“S-shut up and eat before it goes cold!” 

“Yes, Mother.” Ignoring the childish remark he pours them both a glass of wine. The island nation sits down waiting for Romano to take his seat at the opposite side of the table. The island nation thanks him again for the delicious smelling meal while looking down at the bowl in front of him. He gestures for the blond to start eating. He wants to know what the other man thinks. The island nation doesn't need telling twice. 

Silently watching from his seat he can't help but get lost in his own thoughts again. England’s eyelashes are long, and dark (just like his eyebrows), and he has a faint, almost invisible natural blush on his cheeks. It’s hard to imagine the man without his famous eyebrows, because they’re just so prominent on the man’s fair porcelain skin, but he tries; curious. The vision he imagines looks similar to the real life man sitting before him, but in place of that scruffy bird’s nest his hair is combed back, and instead of those hideous black tarantulas Fantasy England has eyebrows that are light and neatly trimmed. He’s not really sure who this person he’s conjuring up in his imagination is anymore. The tattered jeans and baggy t-shirt the Brit is wearing are replaced with a fashionable blue/grey suit, and dark brown lace-up shoes. As handsome as this fairy-tale prince is with his cherubic face and dashing smile he’s definitely not England. 

Well, maybe the smile is the same. He tears off a pieces from one of the rolls, and stuffs it in his mouth watching the blond in silence. 

“H-how’s it taste?”

“Wonderful I can't remember the last time I had something so good!” He accepts the praise somewhat bitterly. He’s not happy with the flavour himself, but it’s not like the island nation knows how caponata is supposed to be, so he’s not going to chastise him (this time) for his shitty taste-buds.

“And the wine, Bastard?” Eyeing the blond’s glass he notices that the man has barely touched it. He better fucking like it - he’d brought it from his personal store back home especially for the blond. It’s probably a good thing he hadn't given it to the blond as a gift after all. He doesn't want such a fine vintage to be wasted. Maybe he just isn't fond of wine? England is technically a Germanic nation like the Potato-Bastard and the Albino-Potato. Good wine is wasted on those drunken beer-chugging barbarians. France being the exception for whatever weird reason. Probably because of his closeness to Spain and Veneziano? 

“It’s very nice. Quite sweet. I've not had anything like it-” The man trails off.

“But?”

The Englishman doesn't respond right away, and that has the Italian worried. This is one of the finest wines he owns. Even England; that pseudo-Potato, should be able to appreciate such a delicate balance of flavours. Unless his taste-buds really are that fucked from all those years of eating his own food…He’s getting irritated waiting for the man to answer.

“Bastard if you don't like it just fucking say so.” 

“No! I do! It’s just...A little strong for me that’s all.” Huh? Wait...What? Is that it? Okay that’s kind of amusing. The blond flushes and looks down at his half empty bowl.

“You can’t hold your alcohol?” If that’s all it is then that’s fine. He doesn't want to push the man to drink more than he wants to. He’d not expected that kind of confession from the blond though. He’d always assumed Potato-Bastards can hold their weight in booze. Then again in England’s case that would kind of make sense. He looks over the blond’s scrawny form again and frowns.

“Of course I can! I'm not a child! I just...Have a tendency to drink a little over my limit from time to time.” The disgruntled look on the man’s face is priceless. He’s blushing darker than the wine. “It’s not like it happens often, so don't go getting the wrong idea!” England is obviously embarrassed, and refusing to talk anymore. He didn't mean to upset the man. He’d just been curious. Fuck. He needs to lighten the mood somehow. He’d been really enjoying getting to know the other nation better. He doesn't want him to clam up now just because he’s embarrassed. 

“Could be worse. You could be like my brother.” That gets the blond’s attention. Good. 

“Your brother? Veneziano?”

“Yeah. He’s the worst drunk you could ever imagine.” Disbelieving peridots stare back at him from across the table.

“I don't believe you.” Should have expected that. The German-Potato hadn't believed it either until he saw it for himself.

“Seriously. That idiotic jackass thought he could out-drink Hungary for some stupid fucking reason. He got so wasted he stripped off buck-ass naked. The Macho-Bastard tried to catch him, so he could get the moron to put his clothes back on, but Vene ran off screaming like a lunatic.” England chokes on his food as he tries not to laugh. The blond can laugh all he wants, but it hadn't been a pleasant experience for him, damn it.

“So, then what happened?”

“He ended up at Switzerland's place.”

“How on Earth did he manage that?”

“I dunno, Bastard, but you know what happened then?” England shakes his head smiling.

“I imagine Switzerland wasn't very amused.” 

“Yeah no shit. The crazy son of a bitch thought I was Veneziano and shot me in the fucking ass!” 

“You’re joking!”

Damn it. He can't help but smile at the horrified look on England’s face. The blond is so expressive with his emotions it’s amusing just watching him. 

He shakes his head. “I still have the scar.” 

They finish their food wine glasses untouched and forgotten as they share stories back and forth about their crazy relatives, and all the ridiculous shit they get dragged into. Though in England’s case he seems to be the cause of most of it. There’s one thing that’s been bugging him though. The entire time they've been talking the blond bastard has just kept smiling at him. Which he wouldn't really give a shit about (the man seems to smile quite a lot) if it wasn't for the fact that he can't help feeling like the bastard it laughing at him too. Not just at his stories, but actually at him, so he confronts the blond about it. 

“Sorry! I just find it fascinating how you talk with your hands.” He what? Oh. America had said something about that a few times in the past.

“It’s an Italian thing, Bastard. We all do it.”

“Really? I've never noticed. I always thought it’s just something your brother does.” He can kind of understand that. Veneziano can never keep still for more than two seconds. “I don't really spend much time outside of the hotels when I go to meetings. I have quite a lot of paperwork and appointments, so I don't get much time to go sightseeing these days.” That must really suck. 

It must be the same for most nations. The whole reason he’s here instead of Veneziano is because the idiot had said he desperately needed a vacation. He can't imagine his brother being so bogged down with work that he doesn't even have time to relax. The bastard is always so full of energy. If he’s so overworked then why has he never asked for help? He’s offered enough times, but Veneziano always shoots him down (until now). D-does he really think he’s that fucking unreliable?

“Do a lot of nations have that problem, Bastard?”

“Struggling with too much work you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm, some more than others I’d imagine. America is pretty good at taking care of things right away. Spain on the other hand is notorious for always leaving things until the very last minute. I imagine you would know more about that than I do though.” Ugh, he doesn't even want to think about it. “In my case it’s largely due to the fact that I represent four very different countries. Unfortunately that means four times the paperwork, and four times the headaches.” That really does sound like it must suck, but England was a huge empire at one time, so juggling the issues of multiple countries at once must be something he’s pretty used to by now.

“What about my brother?” It’s mortifying to admit, but he’s really got no idea what goes on anymore. The only issues he knows of are the ones his people constantly complain about. He's got no clue on how they’re dealt with, or if they even are. These days it feels like his brother only seems to care about the shit affecting his own half of the country. His people’s struggles are getting worse, and nothing seems to ever get better no matter how much time passes. He wants to believe in his northern half. Wants to believe that Veneziano hasn't completely cast him out, but...He worries, damn it. All the damn time. 

What if, what if Veneziano is deliberately trying to..to...What if he wants to be Italy. The whole of it? Just him? The German-Potato already refers to him as if he is. A lot of nations probably do. They probably don't even remember Romano even exists. That fear has stuck with him from the day the two had ‘unified’. He wants to believe that he can trust his brother, but the fear never goes away. It’s the main reason why he’d agreed to come here to England. To try and get himself back out there, and remind the world that he’s still here, but he doesn't want to start any internal conflicts either. There’s no fucking way either of them would survive if he and Veneziano started fighting each other. 

“Are you alright?” He nods trying to shake the fears from his mind. 

“Yeah, just trying to imagine how Veneziano is at meetings. Does he get shit done okay?” 

“International meetings are a bit...Of a circus. Just trying to get everyone settled and focused on the talks is an absolute chore. Especially the global meetings. Those are a bloody nightmare.” It seriously can't be that bad right? Doesn't the Macho-Potato keep everything organised? He’d always assumed that’s the bastard’s ‘job’. It dawns on him then that the blond is avoiding talking about his brother. He’s not sure why, but he’s going to find out.

“What about my brother, Bastard?” England bites his lip unable to avoid the direct question. 

“...He’s rather easily distracted…” Stating the fucking obvious. He’s getting sick of these vague answers though. The Englishman is obviously holding back, and it’s understandable. Romano is Veneziano’s older brother. Most people would be pissed if someone started bitching about their sibling right in front of them, especially when that person is a near complete stranger. He needs to know though for himself if Veneziano is actually doing his job.

“I'm not going to get mad, Bastard. I know he’s an idiot.” 

“I-I wouldn't go that far…” 

“You don't like Veneziano?” It might just be his wishful thinking, but something tells him he’s not wrong.

“I never said that-” He shrugs. He’s getting tired of all this back and forth. England is definitely trying to avoid talking about the northern Italian. He’s probably pushing it, but Veneziano is his brother, and if the blond really doesn't like the little moron then he wants to know why. He asks again, but England still won't give him a straight answer. 

“I-”

“Yes or no, Bastard.” England eyes him cautiously, and then sighs.

“Since you're so adamant about it...If you want me to be brutally honest your brother seems to have a natural knack for getting under my skin, and frankly he drives me absolutely bonkers. If I have to hear that ridiculous “Vee” of his one more time I might just-”. The blond stops himself, and takes a big gulp from the wine glass. Shit seriously? He had no fucking idea the bastard dislikes his brother so much. The man’s face is scrunched into a hideous scowl. It’s no wonder Veneziano is scared shitless of the island nation if he looks at him like that. Jesus…He wants to hide from the bastard now too. 

He doesn't know what to say to that either, damn it. He’d never expected wonderful, perfect, Veneziano could ever be so disliked by someone (apart from him that is). The tension radiating off the blond is terrifying, but it’s his own fault. He’d pushed the man, and this is the result. He just hadn't expected it to be so...Explosive. Now he kind of gets what Spain and France had been talking about. He must look as shaken as he feels, because England apologises for his outburst, and turns away from him again. 

“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” He nods. He doesn't know what to talk about though. The conversation had gotten kind of heavy, and he wants to lighten the mood again, but he’s out of things to talk about. He takes a sip from his glass just to occupy himself for a second. The wine’s warm, and the rolls are probably cold by now. He should probably clear the table since they’re done eating. Fuck! He’d completely forgotten about dessert!

“Do you like sweets, Bastard?”

“Yes I do. Why do you ask?”

“Good. I made dessert. Do you want some?” 

“I’d love something sweet right about now. Thank you.” 

“Right, hold on a minute. I’ll go get it.”

“Do you mind if we eat in the living room? If I sit here any longer I think my backside is going to fall off.” Pfft.

“It’s your house. Do what you want.” The blond yawns and stretches before standing from the table reaching for his empty bowl.

“Dinner was delicious. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. Don't worry about the dishes, Bastard. I’ll do them.” He might as well since he needs to serve up dessert anyway.

“I can't have that I'm afraid. You’re my guest. You’ve already gone out of your way to make breakfast and dinner. I won't have you doing the dishes as well.” Technically the blond had helped with breakfast and the dishes this morning, and the reason he’d chosen to make the meals is because he doesn't trust England to make them himself. It’s his home though. The Englishman obviously wants to be a good host. It had taken a while for him to figure out why the blond is being so gracious towards him, but after the realisation that it’s probably just a part of the island nation’s culture the man’s niceness made a lot more sense. He gets that. Making sure guests are properly welcomed is a big part of his culture too, so he’s not going to offend the bastard by arguing with him.

“Fine. You can do the dishes.” England nods a victorious smirk on his lips as he collects up the bowls.

They never make it to the living room. They’d started chatting again while England dried the dishes. The blond is pretty open about his opinions on most things, but he doesn't like talking about his thoughts of the other nations. Often trying to hide behind vague answers and half-truths whenever the topic came up. Even when he tries to hide what he’s really thinking the Brit’s face gives away his true thoughts, so Romano had been able to kind of get an idea of what the blond thinks of their fellow nations just from that. 

They’d somehow ended up on the topic of relationships, and England immediately clammed up. The stubborn bastard outright refused to answer any of his questions, and they ended up sitting (or standing in the blond’s case) in awkward silence again glaring daggers at each other from across the kitchen. Five minutes of intense glaring later the Brit’s phone had started ringing breaking the silence. The island nation promptly left the Italian at the breakfast table to eat his fruit salad alone while the Englishman took the call in another room. 

He’d gotten anxious as he waiting for the Brit to return. England would probably still be upset, and he doesn't want to talk to the man if he’s just going to be a dick. The kitchen was still horribly stuffy, so the Italian made himself comfortable out on the deck to get some air while he waited. He’d gotten bored pretty quickly, and his mind had started wondering again.

England really is a mysterious bastard. One minutes he’s smiling and talking happily the next he’s being a stubborn ass and refusing to talk at all. According to some of the other nations the blond is not nice to be around. The Englishman is obviously not fond of said nations himself either, but at the same time he’s got all of these tales of silly misadventures with the same bastard's he says he doesn't want to talk about. France, Spain, America, and the Albino-Potato mostly. His weather is famously shit, but today it had been really nice, and the forecast says the same for tomorrow too, so it can't always be that bad. As for his cooking...The Italian isn't in a hurry to find out if the horror stories he’s heard are true or not.

He’s known Spain for over a thousand years, and there’s still loads of things he doesn't know about the brunet (as well as some things he wishes he didn't know), so it’s not like he’s expecting to have the island nation figured out after only a day. Che. He doesn't like not knowing though. He can't decide if he should be afraid of the Tea-Bastard or not, damn it. 

England had eventually returned finding the brunet in the kitchen (it had gotten dark, so he’d gone back inside not wanting sit outside alone). The Brit was still clearly irritated, but he wasn't sure if it was because of their ‘argument’ or the phone call. Whatever the reason the rattled Englishman only stayed long enough to say goodnight, and then disappeared upstairs leaving Romano alone to lock up and turn out the lights. The bastard never even ate his dessert. 

Damn it. He hopes England isn't still pissed off at him. He shouldn't have kept pushing the man to talk if he didn't want to. England’s love life is really none of his business, but the blond had been so stubborn about not talking about it the Italian can't help but wonder why. The bastard is obviously bitter about something, so the only conclusion he can come to is that the Englishman must of had a nasty breakup and still isn't over it yet. It’s hard to imagine England having a lover though. That could be another possibility. Maybe the blond has confessed to someone, and was turned down? Damn it. He’s back to square one again. Does the island bastard even have friends? 

It’s too warm to sleep. The heavy summer night is making him restless. He can't see much of the gardens as he looks out from the balcony, but it’s better than sitting around in the stuffy bedroom unable to sleep. He doesn't want to think about the stupid Tea-Bastard anymore, but his mind won't rest, and it’s too fucking late to call the Tomato-Bastard. America should be back from work by now. So he might as well call him. If anyone should know how to deal with a pissed off Englishman it should be the man’s ‘little brother’, right?

Fuck it.

“...Hey, Bastard...Yeah, it’s been awhile...How are you?...That’s good...Yeah, it’s pretty late here...Bastard if I was sleeping I wouldn't have fucking called you would I?...No, damn it, it’s fine...Shut up for a second, I need to ask you about something.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I apologise for the lack of update last week. I had a crazy weekend, and just didnt get around to updating, so sorry about that, but here it is a week late!
> 
> Warnings: Slightly graphic imagery/sickness/vomiting. Nothing major, but I suggest not eating while reading this chapter if you have an easily upset stomach. As always Romano's potty-mouth, but that's going to be a common thing in this fill so I'm not going to add it in the warnings from here on. 
> 
> Other than that, I hope you guys and girls enjoy this update. It was a bane to write. I must have re-written it about six times.

He looks completely at home flitting through the market stalls critically picking through all the different fruits and vegetables. His selection process is painstakingly thorough; the colour, size, and smell of each ingredient is carefully scrutinised only to be returned if it doesn’t meet with the brunet’s high standards of approval. Much to England’s joy the Italian seems to be pleased with his current selection of goods. He would have been devastated if Romano had said he didn't enjoy the market. His peoples’ agricultural and crafting abilities have always been something he takes great pride in, but France and blasted America only ever mock him. ‘An island of shopkeepers’, or some such drivel, but that isn't even an insult as far as he’s concerned, instead he chooses to see it as a compliment. Commerce, after all, is the lifeblood of one's economy. 

Whenever the island nation tries to share his people’s achievements with the European the blasted ninny always has to go and turn it into a competition. Which usually means busted noses and throats sore from shouting. Bloody tosser. The Frog simply can't entertain the idea that anything from England’s place could ever compare to the grandeur of Europe. He has to keep reminding himself that France is a pillock, and not worth the effort it would take to smash his bearded-face into the nearest available surface.

Truth be told the blond had debated on whether or not to bring his companion to The Shambles to go ingredient shopping, but he seems to be enjoying himself. The feisty southern nation didn't seem overly happy with the supermarket's goods yesterday, and they’d left with only a few bags of ‘essentials’. They haven't got nearly enough supplies to last them the next two weeks. Not with the way Romano is getting through them. He can't deny the brunet’s cooking is on a completely unrivalled scale, but if he continues to empty half the fridge every time he prepares a single meal the blond can see these ingredient shops becoming a rather costly necessity. 

The Italian had also completely seized control of the kitchen. He hadn't had a choice in the matter either after having being forcefully evicted thanks to the freak mishap with the toaster yesterday afternoon. England still isn't happy about the implications of that, - he wants the brunet to feel comfortable, but doesn't want the Italian thinking he can do whatever he likes while staying with the blond either. He does have rules, and will enforce them if necessary.

It’s not like his food is that bad, and besides, the toast had only been lightly charred - nothing that couldn't be fixed with a hearty dollop of jam. There had been no need for Romano to toss it in the bin the way he had. The promise of two weeks homemade Italian cuisine proved to be too much temptation for the blond to pass up though, so he swallowed his pride, and allowed the brunet to take command of the kitchen. It wasn't the gentlemanly thing to do - allowing his guest to cook for him in his own home, but Romano had been so insistent about it that it almost seemed like a crime to refuse him. 

In hindsight, he’s glad he brought the brunet to the market, but it still doesn't make sense to him why the other nation seems to find the small gathering of stalls so endearing. Really in this case the poncy Frog is right, and blast it all if admitting that - even to himself, isn't enough of a reason to make England want to curl up into a ball and just die. It would be utterly unrealistic to try and compare this quaint little market to the endless sea of stalls one would find at the Italian’s own. He can envision it clearly from memory; the sprawling cobbled streets filled to bursting with people all trying to barter with the marketeers (like the brunet is doing now; the cheeky little…) for the best price, and how the unforgiving Italian sun would glare down on the array of stalls each beautifully stocked with exotic goods. All the sights, sounds and smells were so vivid that even now the blond finds himself at a loss for words at how utterly stunning the experience always is. 

Admittedly he’s only ever visited the northern half of the nation for meetings having never ventured any further south than Rome, but with his close proximity to both the Adriatic and the African continent he can't imagine Romano’s own markets being any less spectacular than those of his brother. 

Now, as he looks back at the tatty collection of old metal pipes and plastic sheeting haphazardly strewn together he can't help but feel that’s it's all so very ugly and inadequate. It's obvious to him that his elation earlier was entirely misplaced. Romano must simply be making the best of what’s available to him; they do need to eat after all, and fresh produce is still a better choice than processed supermarket ‘food’. He leaves the tanned man bartering (more like arguing) away with the butcher, and goes to indulge himself at the confectioners around the corner. 

He makes his way back to the market an hour and a half later with a selection of different treats he hopes the other may enjoy, and some for himself too, of course. Mindful of the fact that the brunet will probably be furiously angry with him for having been ditched the blond had thought, hoped, prayed, he might be able to placate the Italian with chocolates. From what he has heard; an enraged South Italy is an extremely unpleasant phenomenon, and he may be a little bias, but the blond has always considered himself quite the connoisseur of confections. He really shouldn't have worried though because he soon spots the tanned nation having a drink (coffee most likely) at a cafe and flirting shamelessly with a young waitress - who can only just barely be out of school. Bloody Casanova. The brunet is sitting almost sideways in his chair leaning just close enough to the flustered girl to keep their conversation intimate, but not too much, so he doesn't come across too strongly.

Rolling his eyes, England crosses his arms and perches himself on a low wall to watch the shameful scene unfolding before him. The romance nation takes a sip of his drink and laughs at something the flushed girl says, and the rainy Brit notices with amusement that he is not the only one watching the two now as they exchange coy smiles and quiet conversation, however he is the only one who seems displeased with the situation. He feels sorry for the poor lass, because she's been totally captivated by her suave seductor, all too easily, he might add. Being one of his citizens he'd hoped the girl would at least put up a little more resistance. The last thing he wants is people thinking his women are easy to seduce. 

Despite his disapproval the pale nation can't help but be jealous of Romano’s natural ability to charm. Heaven knows he could use some of it, because he can't even remember the last time anyone had showed enough of an interest in him for the blond to feel desirable. Except at the meeting last month when the ruddy kra- Bugger. He’d promised himself he wasn't going to give that incident another thought, but here he is a month later still troubled by it. 

He really wants to go over and chastise the two for their indecent public behaviour, but England is a gentleman and doing so would be incredibly rude, but then again so is spying. He's angry at himself for being so petty. It's not really all that indecent or shameful, what the two are doing. So he should really stop being so condescending, because it is completely unfair to Romano who is simply enjoying himself at no one’s expense. The blond is just pissed off at himself and projecting his frustration at anything in his line of sight. If anyone needs to sort out their behaviour it's him. With judgemental eyes and a sour feeling bubbling up in his stomach he heads to a nearby park to eat his now cold cone of chips and mushy peas. Alone. 

He can't blame Romano for wanting to spend his time chatting up a pretty girl rather than go sightseeing around one of England's most historical cities with him. He’d been the one who threw a temper tantrum and had stormed off to go stuff his face with chocolate. Which he is now deciding had been a very poor lapse of judgement on his part, because all the sugar combined with the grease he'd just ingested is starting to make him feel very ill under the merciless glare of the afternoon sun. Sod it all. How typical for his weather to be pleasant for a change, and he goes and makes himself so sick he can't even appreciate it. He had acted like an utter brat, and now he’s suffering for his actions. How mature of him; a grown man, to selfishly ditch his guest all because he’d felt sorry for himself. He'd feel ashamed if it was actually possible for the blond to feel anything other than the overwhelming nausea he’s suffering from right now. 

The gurgling of the river has his stomach lurching, but his people and the tourists continue on enjoying the summer afternoon unawares of the nation’s self-inflicted misery. He'd brought the situation onto himself, and the realisation isn't doing anything to ease the surge of self pity the blond is currently feeling as he sits there in the park. He rubs his eyes in frustration the peridot orbs cast down at the ground below at a flock of pigeons that has gathered around his feet. He tosses the few remaining chips aimlessly onto the path in front, and watches the birds descend on them like a pack of mad dogs before discarding the empty cone into the bin to his right. He leans back against the hot metal of the bench and closes his eyes with a deep sigh trying to recall the exact moment when his day had started to go to Hell.

The two had pulled into the car park in the middle of the city around ten, and Romano clearly hadn't been in the best of moods even before they’d arrived. The brunet was obviously tired - he’d been yawning constantly during the entire time it took him to prepare breakfast, and the Brit had to wonder if the Italian had actually slept at all, because the half-nation had almost burned their meal. Twice. Which he is sure is something quite out of the ordinary for a seasoned chef such as Romano. 

The Italian hadn't been eager to venture out to the farmer’s market. The blond could tell just from the look on the half-nations face when he’d suggested it yesterday. Contrary to the stern refusal and volatile swears England had been expecting his guest had been surprisingly decent and open-minded about the idea, and agreed to take a look around despite his reservations. Which is more than he can say for the northern brother, but that’s hardly surprising given that the energetic brunet can’t seem to stand the blond, or his nation for that matter. The feeling is mutual at least in regard to the man himself. He can't fault the country or the Italian people. It country truly is as glamorous as the tourism pamphlets would have one believe. Northern Italy himself, however...He’s nice enough generally, but every time the European would be forced to visit the island nation he would do nothing but complain. Constantly. It didn't matter where the blond took him or how polite he had tried to be, Northern Italy would only cry, wail and complain about everything. Every time.

In contrast Romano has kept his opinions about the blond’s little part of the island nation quiet. He’s sure the brunet doesn't think much of his country, but he’d been gracious enough not to constantly throw his thoughts in the Briton’s face. The weather had been admittedly awful that Thursday when the Italian had arrived, but Romano had taken it in stride, although somewhat gingerly, but kept any complaints he had to himself. England had been willing to give the temperamental southern brother a chance solely for that reason, and much to his surprise the brunet is not completely intolerable. A little exasperating, but not intolerable. His constant swearing and explosive temper is a little tiring to deal with at times, but it’s hardly anything compared to the constant headache the blond would get from trying to wrangle the other brother into staying focused long enough to get any actual work done. 

He’s an utter git for just leaving the brunet. Had it been Northern Italy he’d be more concerned about leaving the Italian alone, but Romano seems to have his head screwed on enough to find his way around alright by himself, so it shouldn't hurt for the blond to just rests his eyes for a few more minutes. He’ll track Romano down just as soon as his stomach settles down a little.

~~ 

He’s trying to remember the last time he saw the rainy nation. His coffee is going cold, and he’s not sure how much longer he should wait before freaking out. The blond had been with him when they walked into town from the carpark. He’d also been there when Romano had left the stall stocked with eggs and dairy to check out one of the ones selling fruits and vegetables, but then what? He'd gotten caught up in his shopping too busy trying to negotiate prices with the particularly stubborn stall owners, and doesn't remember seeing the blond, but he hadn't really been paying attention to the other nation anyway. 

He'd finished his shopping in a good mood thinking about the different dishes he would make when the two nations got back to the blond’s manor, and then turned to ask the Brit what they were going to do next only for the asshole to be nowhere in sight. He'd been completely calm at first thinking maybe England had gone to find a bathroom or something, because the blond had already consumed at least three cups of tea since arriving at the market. His toilet theory was obviously wrong, because he's pretty sure it wouldn't take the blond man over an hour, even on a bad day.

Laden with shopping bags the brunet was not happy about the idea of wandering around an unfamiliar city in search of the other nation. He wasn't worried. Not even a little. It isn't like he can't find his way around by himself. He’s a grown man, damn it, not some little kid who needed to be babysat. Che. He’d be fine, but England wouldn't be once Romano got his hands on the bastard. Yeah right. Like he'd ever start a fight with England of all nations. He isn't fucking suicidal, but he is pissed that the bastard had just up and abandoned him without a word, so he'd probably just yell at the asshole. It's not like the blond doesn't deserve it.

Leaving the group of stalls he made his way down the street and found a food cart selling cheap mini doughnuts with a wide variety of different toppings and sauces. He really shouldn't of stopped for snacks. He needed to find England, but fuck it they smelt really good and he was stressed, so he caved and bought two boxes; one with chocolate sauce and one without. Fuck America for getting him addicted to shitty street food; at least in Palermo the stuff is more than just edible. Still, the mini Dunkin Donuts weren't exactly bad. They were soft and warm, and the chocolate sauce didn't smell too sickeningly sweet. He’d found a wall to sit on just opposite the cart outside a bank, so he made his way over and dropped the shopping bags down on the flagstone floor trying to balance the boxes in his other hand.

It didn't take long for him to finish one box of doughnuts, and he put the second away in one of the shopping bags before he could start eating that too. The Tea-Bastard still hadn't returned, and he didn't know what to do. He’d debated on waiting for England right where he was, or going look for the missing nation. He wasn't happy about either option; waiting meant he could be sat possibly for hours with nothing to do until the fucker decided to come find him, but the alternative wasn't any better. He had no idea where the blond had gone, and the bags were heavy, so the idea of lugging them around with him while searching for the missing man in the stupid heat was not a nice one.

“You reet, mate?” An unfamiliar voice had called out

The sudden voice scared the brunet out of his thoughts, and Romano had looked up to see a man at least two heads taller than himself, built like a tank, and covered head to toe in intricate tattoos. Usually the detailed designs would have fascinate the artistic nation, but on this guy they just added to the overwhelming aura of intimidation. He froze. Unsure of what to do the brunet just sat rooted to his spot on the wall. When the man spoke again, his voice heavily accented, the Italian finally broke out of his stupor, but still couldn't make his mouth function enough to form words.

“Mate?”

“Ah, yes?!” He squeaked, the automatic response caught in his throat. In hindsight he’s amazed he’d actually remembered to speak in English he’d been so startled. It wasn't like he was scared or anything. Just surprised...

“Sorry! Didn't mean to flay you. You've been sitting there for a bit chunterin’ away to yourself. I thought you might be lost or something.”

The statement had taken the Italian completely by surprise. He'd expected to be murdered, or at least mugged. The surprisingly friendly tone had freaked him out more than the other guy’s initial impression. Eventually the brunet calmed down enough to acknowledge the other was waiting for some kind of reply, and managed to formulate a sentence. Sort of.

“Oh, eh...I was waiting for, for my...friend.” The scary-looking man has a serious look on his face, and he'd starting to think he may get murdered after all. That'd be fucking ironic wouldn't it? The blond bastard leaves him alone for a bit and then he gets killed. He would have been an easy target sitting there alone like an idiot. 

He takes a sip of the vile coffee and watches the waitress Julie rush around clearing tables and taking orders. He has to wonder how long it would take the blond nation to realise the Italian was gone if he had been attacked and disposed of. Probably not that long. England is hosting him after all he’s not about to just leave without the brunet, right? If anything happened to the Italian he’s sure Spain wouldn't waste anytime in harassing the blond about it either. There’s no way England would willingly want to put up with that, so the man has to be around somewhere... 

The burly human-canvas had been surprisingly nice despite his terrifying physique. He’d complimented the Italian on his “reet good English” with a smile and a laugh. He’d thanked the tall man quietly. The man is a friend of one of the stall owners in the market, and had apparently seen the brunet when he was shopping. When he saw him sitting alone talking away to himself (apparently this is becoming a habit) he'd come over to see if the half-nation was okay, because he seemed lost. That had been...Unexpected.

The man had asked him what his ‘friend’ looks like. Che. He might not hate the island nation like Spain does, but they certainly aren't ‘friends’, but he hadn't known what else to call the bastard at the time. He began to describe the nation in detail from his messy blond hair to the tight-fitting white top and dark jeans England had been wearing, though decided to not mention the other’s eyebrows. As funny as it would be for someone to recognise the missing man because of them he didn't think England would appreciate it very much. Even if they are the blond’s most prominent feature. He'd been tempted to point them out anyway just to annoy the bastard, and get back at him for ditching the brunet in the first place. 

The guy hadn't seen the blond though, but promised to tell the missing man ‘Lovino’ is looking for him if he ran into him. It’s better than nothing, but the encounter had left him more panicked than reassured. He’d freaked out wondering if England even knew his civilian name, but then realised it didn't really matter. How many other Italians would be wandering around the old city looking for the Brit? He’d thought about asking some of the shopkeepers to get the search moving, but he still had all the bags to struggle with, and he hadn't wanted people thinking he's some stupid tourist that had lost his way. 

If England wanted to wander off on his own then fuck him, because he isn't going to tire himself out wandering around in this heat looking for the Tea-Bastard. The tattooed man said his goodbyes and went on his way leaving the brunet sitting alone again. He’d gotten tired sitting out in the heavy sun, and found a little cafe where he could rest in the shade, but still in sight of the market and the high street.

It had really surprised him. The big buff guy (who Romano is going to refer to as John, because he can't just keep calling him ‘that guy’) wanting to help him find the missing blond nation had been completely unexpected. All the nations he knows including Spain, France, and even his brother had said England's people are cold-hearted like the nation himself. Not the type to openly go out of their way to try and help someone. Now he's getting another fucking headache, because this back and forth between what Romano’s seen of the nation and his people’s behaviour is completely contradictory to all the things he's heard from other nations about the blond, and it's driving him insane. He didn't necessarily believe Spain in the first place. There’s too much bad blood between the two nations after years and years of conflict, but if his brother had said England is unapproachable and cold then there must be some fucking truth behind the rumours somewhere, right? He just hasn't seen it. Yet.

He’s going to figure the bastard out, and find out for himself if the things he's heard are true or not because, fuck, he's done with all this bullshit. If the pale nation really is a dick then he’s sure the bastard will show his true colours eventually, and Romano can go back to Sicily knowing Spain and the others had been right for once. 

He can't think of any reason for the blond to pretend to be nice to him. It’s his brother who does all of the nation work, and they aren't exactly that close, so it's not like England can try to use him as bait to blackmail the stupid idiot. There’s nothing to gain, so then what?...Well that’s the fucking question isn't it? If the blond is as nice, and polite, and shit as he seems then why the nasty reputation? He'd only seen the blond be a bit grumpy a couple of times, but that was mostly because of Romano overstepping his welcome, and pushing the bastard to talk about things he clearly didn't want to. Nothing that rings any alarm bells to him that England is secretly a psycho. 

His people seem okay too, ‘John’ and the stall owners had been nice, though he can't deny feeling intimidated at first, but that isn't enough of a reason for them to be labeled ‘unfriendly’. So how England had gotten such a reputation is a fucking mystery. Shit, he’s going around in circles again. He rubs his eyes and tries to calm down. Julie gives him a smile as she passes by, and disappears back inside the cafe.

Asking America on the phone last night had been a complete waste of time. The bastard hadn't told him anything helpful. Only bitched about his former caretaker the same way Spain does...Maybe he should ask Portugal; he seems like the only one the blond is relatively close to, at least from the way Spain complains about their overly affectionate and lovey-dovey interactions. He always gets a bit confused whenever the topic of a supposed relationship between the older Iberian and the island nation comes up, because Portugal has been dating Netherlands for longer than the Italian can remember. He’d never really concerned himself with Spain’s bitching before, but now it has him curious. Maybe they are lovers in a scandalous affair? He kills the thought before he can think about it too much. He may not know the English bastard that well, but he just can't imagine that being the case. At all. 

Portugal is pretty mysterious himself. Spain always acts really weird every time his brother is around. Just what kind of secrets does the older Iberian know about the Italian’s former boss for him to always become so meek every time his brother shows up? The only things he really knows about the older Iberian is that he loves football just as much as his ‘baby’ brother (and himself), and he’s supposedly a very romantic man. He just can't imagine the brunet willingly taking part in an affair, especially with a supposedly grumpy asshole like the Tea-Bastard. Portugal seems like too good of a guy to do something like that. He tries to imagine it. Gentle emerald eyes full of love as the older Iberian whispers sweet nothings into the blond's sensitive ear making him shiver in delight. A light flush spreading on those pale cheeks dusty-pink lips forming into a soft smile as the two join hands, and snuggle close. Their bodies just barely touching. Those bright peridot eyes half-closed with love and adoration as the other leans in closer for a tender kiss…Fuck!!

He groans. Heat pools on his face as he desperately tries to shake the image from his mind. Okay so maybe he can imagine it, but even if the two are lovers (which he still doubts) that doesn't change the fact that their relationship would be an affair. Unless Portugal and Netherlands have broken up, but he’s sure Spain would have called him if that had happened, so that’s just as unlikely as Portugal and England being together in the first place. He tries to go back to thinking about his current dilemma to distract himself from anymore unwanted thoughts, and realises asking Portugal would be a fucking terrible idea. There’s a good chance of word getting back to England, and the Idiot-Tomato, and he just doesn't need that kind of drama in his life. The Pervert-Beard is out for the same reason, and it isn't like he can just go up to England and ask the man to his face. Especially right now because he still has no idea where the fucker is. 

Che.

There’s still no sign of the blond as he starts checking out the different architectural styles of all the buildings around him. It kind of amazes the brunet to see styles from so many different eras of the other nation’s history all packed in together. It’s just so random, but it works somehow. Nothing looks out of place almost like it was designed that way. It's almost time for siesta and he's tired of stressing himself out over stupid crap, so the grumpy Italian sips at his coffee and takes in the view while he waits for the blond to reappear from wherever the fuck he'd gone.

Julie appears from the cafe with his food giving the brunet a smile as she places the plates down on the table. The instant coffee is still disgusting. No matter how much of it he drinks he just can't get used to the taste. He’s going to get the blond to buy an espresso machine and teach him the values of a good cup of coffee, because there's no way he's going to spend the next two weeks drinking this instant shit. The young waitress asks if she can sit down at the table, and he can't help but tease the girl when he agrees, because she's very obviously trying to pretend she's not checking him out. He bites back a smile. Of course she is. Why wouldn't she? She’s been flirting with him for the last two hours from the moment he first got to the cafe.

The first thing the girl had noted was his accent. No surprise there, but her next excited statement caught him off guard a little. “I totally knew you weren't from here! You’re like, way too hot!” He couldn't figure out if she’d been joking or serious. The conversation had been pretty plain; the usual tourist talk he'd give to people visiting his half of the nation, but the girl is cute (a bit naive and sheltered), but cute, so he did his best to appear interested. He wonders just how young the bleached-blond waitress is. It's obvious she's just a teenager full of enthusiasm and energy. Just watching her watch him so intently as she drums her manicured nails on the tabletop is tiring the nation out. He eats his surprisingly okay tomato and pesto panini as they talk. He snorts lightly suddenly reminded of the time America had taken him to see his first american football game. The baby-eyed blond had been in complete national pride mode, and despite the obnoxious narcissism Romano too got easily swept up in the excitement. 

Julie has probably never even left England, he thinks, as the girl probes him with another onslaught of questions about his nation, and himself; the Italian ‘tourist, Lovino Vargas’. Everything he says seems to mystify the bubbly Brit. What mystifies him is the cake. It’s good, really good. The sponge is moist and fluffy and the icing-like buttercream mixed with the sharpness of strawberry jam added just the right level of sweetness. Could England make cakes like this? If they are his signature dessert then he should be able to, right? The idea both intrigues and horrifies him.

A couple make their way to the cafe with a tiny baby and the older lady appears from inside the store with a glass of iced lemonade for the waitress. Fuck, he should've ordered one of those. He watches the water droplets slide down the glass and the ice shift as it melts, and his throat goes dry just looking at it. His coffee has gone cold anyway so there's no chance of him finishing it now. “Drink up, petal. Then come help me out in the kitchen.” The woman says. Her voice is gentle and nurturing. It must be nice to have a boss that genuinely cares about the health of their employees. 

The woman takes the couple’s order and then vanishes inside again. The mood is calm and docile like being back in Italy wasting away his afternoons just walking through the various countryside villages. The young girl drinks her nice cold beverage much to his envy, and they chat a little more before she has to reluctantly go back to work. Julie gives him a smile as she goes, and the late afternoon sun is shining full force drying out anything it's rays can reach. So much for England being a fucking rainy nation. 

It's only when he thinks that he remembers he’s supposed to be keeping an eye out for the blond. Shit. He hears a light chuckle which sounds suspiciously like the missing Englishman and olive green eyes scan the area in desperation, but see nothing. Just the couple and their baby sat to his left. What the fuck? He's finally lost it. Probably gone mad from heat exhaustion or something. He hears the sound again this time louder and turns backwards in his seat towards the cafe window. England is standing there like a smug bastard with a smirk on his stupid face, legs crossed, leaning against the doorframe. The other nation gives a small wave, but instead of being shocked at how the blond had suddenly appeared behind him like one of Japan's ninjas the only thing Romano can think to say is: 

“Holy shit, Bastard! What the fuck happened to your face?!”

“Hi to you too.”

The blond seats himself down at the table, and the two sit for a while. He can't stop staring though. What the hell had happened to the blond while Romano was waiting for the man to return? He’d asked a couple of times, but the bastard won't answer him. It must hurt. It has to, right? The blond gently knocks the Italian’s hand away before he can touch the man’s cheek with hesitant fingers. Damn it, he hadn't even realised he’d moved. The Englishman must be in a hell of a lot of pain right now. Seriously.

“Does it hurt?”

“A tad.”

Bullshit. It’s got to hurt more than just ‘a tad’. They need to get some kind of cream or salve or something on it before it gets worse. He’s gotten everything he’d needed from the market, so there’s no point in sticking around any longer. The food is...Okay (considering one of England’s people made it). He really doesn't want to rush it, but he’s more concerned about the blond opposite him right now, so he stuffs it down his throat as fast as he can without choking himself. The two head back to the carpark as soon as he’s finished, and England loads the bags full of ingredients into the back of the car.

The continuous hum of the electric fan is the only sound that can be heard apart from their laboured breathing, and the little breeze the machine is making isn't helping any. The two nations lay exhausted in the dark of the living room. England is collapsed on the leather sofa a wet washcloth covering his face, and he's only slightly better off splayed out on the wooden floor shirt discarded carelessly in some random direction. He turns to look up at the wilting form above him, though from this angle all he can see is a bright red arm hanging limply over the edge of sofa just inches from his head. Is the poor bastard even still alive?

Dark arms reach back so he can push himself up off the floor, and his naked back sticks to the wood as he tries to sit up. It takes two attempts for him to successfully prop himself up against the front of the sofa, and the cool touch of leather feels nice against his overheated skin. He leans back into the material head resting on the cushion just in front of a clothed knee his throat exposed to the slightly cooler air coming from the fan. He feels the sweat roll down his bare chest leaving cool trails in it’s wake when his body is hit by a blast of air from the fan, and a shiver surges down his torso into his legs. Olive green meet peridot in the silence of the room, but neither has the energy to say anything. The brunet shifts a few times trying to get comfortable, but there’s still a dull ache between his shoulders from laying on the floor.

A sudden freezing sensation slaps him in the chest and overloads his sensitive body, and Romano most definitely does not scream like a little girl from the shock that has his every nerve standing on end. Cold water dribbles down his stomach, and it takes a second for him to realise what just happened. The fucking bastard had thrown the washcloth at him! The fuck?!

There's a groan from beside him and a lethargic arm reaches up to cover the blond’s eyes. “...Too noisy.” He barely catches the words over the sound of the fan in front of the other man’s face. The once pale skin is now burnt red and angry dark freckles splashed over his nose and cheeks, and the Italian can only wince imagining how it must feel - never has he been more glad for his dark mediterranean skin and ability to tan. Well that's what the stupid fucker gets for falling asleep outside in full sun in thirty degree heat with no sunblock. 

There's another groan and England is grasping out for the washcloth eyes closed and covered by an equally red arm. The image is so sad, but somehow hilarious, and fuck it if he's not going to get a picture of this. The great and mighty British empire collapsed and wallowing in agony. He’s not really wallowing though. More like lying in defeat? He reaches for the back left pocket of his jeans to retrieve his phone - which isn't easy when you're almost sitting on the thing. With a lot of wiggling, and unamused noises from the Englishman flaked out on the sofa he manages to ease the device out of his pocket and into his hand. 

The bright flash of the camera fills the room and there's a growl from his left as the blond weakly knocks him in-between the shoulder blades just below the neck with his knee. “You’re a tosser, Romano.” There's no venom behind it, and he knows that the bastard will probably be pissed when he's no longer delirious from sunstroke, but for now the blond simply leans up to glare weakly before falling back down on to the leather sofa with a grunt of annoyance. The poor suffering nation is still clasping for the washcloth. Romano denies him. Serves the fucker right for throwing it at him. The thing has started to dry up now anyway. England huffs and rolls over onto his side t-shirt sticking to him like a second skin. He can see the lean muscles roll and flex through the sweat-soaked material as the nation breathes, and for a moment he's captivated and silently watches the rhythmic rise and fall of the other man’s chest.

He turns away with a flush to tap on his phone; forwarding the Englishman’s misery on to Spain and America. It's not that he's out to humiliate the Tea-Bastard he just thinks the Tomato-Bastard will get a kick out of it, and fuck knows he needs something to laugh about these days, even if it's something pointlessly stupid like England getting a sunburn. The ‘Hero’ replies back almost immediately assaulting Romano's phone with a barrage of emoticons and XD faces. A few seconds later a little message of ‘ _Hope Iggy feels better soon. xx_ ’ pops up and the brunet smiles, though the kisses are a bit much, but so is America, so he ignores it. He’ll show the island nation the message later when he's more with it. It might make him feel better. 

There's no response from the Idiot-Tomato, so he pockets his phone - in the front of his jeans this time, and stretches. He turns to look at the old carriage clock on the mantle; it's still early; only six-thirty, so the sunny nation is probably still busy at work. Sucks for him. Pushing himself up using the sofa for leverage (receiving an irritated sigh from England as he does), the tanned nation goes to prepare a snack. He drops the half-dry cloth on the moron’s face as he walks past only to have it flung back at him over the blond’s head - just barely missing the crystal glass lamp on the end table. Romano picks up the small cut of material and heads towards the kitchen with a smile on his face.

He’s just about finished preparing a bowl of yesterday’s fruit salad when his phone buzzes in his pocket. About fucking time, he thinks, as he sees the Spaniard’s message, though it's not the amused or nasty response he'd been expecting. The brunet has to read it twice because he doesn't believe the words in front of him can be real.

 _That gigante eyebrows never learns does he!_  
_Make sure he drinks lots of water & eats soon. It's dinner time for England's place. He'll probably try to refuse but make him drink and don't let him go to sleep without eating and NO TEA or he might throw up!!_  
_Eyebrows can be really difficult when he's sick and grumpy but Boss believes in you Roma!!_  
_Looooooove you!!_  
_Adios!_

He stares at the message again in disbelief. Since when does Spain care if England is okay or not? Veneziano had never mentioned the two being on friendly terms, and the Tomato-Bastard bitches about the blond whenever he gets the chance. He calls the older man to make sure it's actually him, and the bastard Albino hasn't swiped his phone or something. 

“Bueno?” Yeah, that's Spain alright. What the fuck?! “Roma? Se encuentra Romano? Roooomanoooo?!” He ends the call - too disturbed and confused to do anything else. The bastard calls him back and urges him not to hang up when Romano instinctively presses the accept call button. Damn it. This time the olive eyed Italian has enough sense to ask the Iberian nation about his completely unexpected concern for the blond Englishman currently collapsed in the other room.

“England comes to my house for a week or two every summer -” The man begins. “- and always gets heat stroke, so it's kind of become my job to look after him when that happens.” It sounded so matter of fact, and Spain doesn't seem weirded out by the statement at all. That’s fucking bizarre. Aren't the two enemies? Why the fuck would England spend his summer vacation with Spain of all nations? Especially when he apparently so friendly with Portugal, and has such a conflicting history with the younger Iberian? The two ex-empires hate each other, right? He voices this question to the man down the phone, but only gets a strained laugh in response. The one the bastard uses when he's uncomfortable or hiding something.

What the fuck? He doesn't...There’s no way Spain likes the Tea-Bastard, right? No fucking away. He’s just Spain - that bastard is shit at expressing himself and always doing weird shit that confuses the younger brunet. It doesn't mean he’s hiding anything. This time. Besides isn't Spain screwing Belgium? He laughs at himself as he runs the washcloth under the cold water phone propped between his ear and shoulder, and shakes his head. The heat must be messing with him too if he thought there could ever be anything friendly or even romantic between the two former empires.

“Perdóname, Roma, but I have to get back to work. Te llamo luego, okey? Make sure Eyebrows doesn't...Just do your best, okey? Eyebrows is a pain the ass, but I know you can do it! Buena suerte! Adios!” The line goes dead before the brunet can say anything, and he can only stare at the device in his hand for a moment; mind reeling. He tries to redial, but it goes straight to voicemail. He can't believe the bastard turned off his fucking phone!

A loud ‘thump’ alerts him to the nation in the other room, and he waits for a swear or some kind of growl, but there's nothing. Just silence. Startled he makes his way to look through the the door frame washcloth in hand to see England face-down on the floor between the sofa and coffee table. Fruit salad forgotten he rushes into the living room almost skidding on the floor to see if the bastard is alright.

“Bastard? England? Hey, answer me! Are you okay?!” 

There's no response, and Romano panics. 

It's only ten minutes, but it's an agonisingly long and worrisome ten minutes before heavy eyelids begin to flutter and a small mumble escapes pale lips. Olive green eyes open to the scene before them. The brunet raises his head and lets go of the sigh he didn't know he was holding hands still tightly clasped together in the prayer he was so desperately reciting only seconds earlier. England’s scarlet face tightens as unfocused peridots try to make sense of the world around him.

The Italian is at his side as he has been since the moment the blond first lost consciousness holding the washcloth onto the overheated skin of the other nation’s impressive brow and forehead. The not-so-rainy nation is still far too fragile to be moved off the floor, though he does try to turn himself over, and the brunet has to help the man roll his body to rest on its side.

Only a moment later England throws up.

Only a moment after that Romano fights the urge to flee to the kitchen.

The blond had missed the Italian's shorts by inches, but he's not done yet, and the olive eyed man shimmies backwards slightly to remove himself from the firing zone. Fuck, so disgusting. The smell is turning his stomach and he can taste bile in his mouth. He needs to get away from this, but there are tears in the blond’s eyes, and the disgust instantly turns to concern for the man collapsed at his side, but the risk he may be sick himself is still there. Tanned hands rub comforting circles on England’s back, and it must be helping because the blond's convulsions seem to slow, but the frail looking form below him continues shaking, so he keeps trying to soothe the quivering nation with gentle touches. 

Getting the blond’s t-shirt off while he was unconscious hadn't been easy, but he’s glad he removed it. It's a nice top. A dark hand grabs it off the arm of the sofa and throws it over the pile of vomit. At least he can't see the offending puddle now, but simply covering it hasn't done anything about the smell. England is still shaking, but not as badly as before. A tender hand reaches up to stroke the damp locks away from dark lashes, and takes a moment to remove the washcloth from the nation's head. He opens it up to wipes away the trails of sweat rolling down the flushed skin. There's a sigh and the flushed blond relaxes. He takes the chance to go to the kitchen and rinse the cloth. The fragile nation senses the movement and tries to reach up for him, and Romano’s heart breaks.

“It's okay.” The blond is not reassured still trying to sit up. The Italian rubs his back again and England stills at the touch. “It's okay. I'm just going to get some water, and some other stuff. I'll be right back, so calm down.” The Englishman too weak and exhausted to refuse flops back onto the floor, and he will forever deny it should the delusional nation ever remember, but there may have been a brief moment where he felt so sorry for the blond that he might have almost kissed the poor bastard on the forehead. He quickly retreats to the kitchen before he can embarrass himself anymore. 

Despite his reputation Romano isn't heartless, and it's an old habit from years and years of nursing his weak and stupid brother back to health after countless bloody wars. He can't believe he’d almost done it to the Tea-Bastard though. He can feel the heat pouring out of his cheeks as he stands there rubbing his eyes in front of the sink face as red as the sickly bastard’s in the other room. Stupid brotherly instincts. He’ll kill Veneziano for being so pathetic. It's the stupid little fucker’s fault he almost did it in the first place.

He turns the water on to cold and washes his face before reaching to the overhead cabinets for a couple of glasses, and fills them with the gushing water. He uses one to rinse out the acidic taste in his mouth the other is for the Englishman. He remembers Spain's text about the importance of staying hydrated not that he needs the idiot’s obvious advice. He's been caring for sick nations for over a millennia. He knows what he's doing, and at one time, ironically, one of the nations he had to care for had been his ex-guardian. The spacey fucker probably doesn't remember the years Romano had spent changing bloodied bandages, or any of the endless prayers his charge had prayed on Spain’s behalf as the empire lost himself time and time again to fevered hysteria.

He snorts. The old bastard constantly likes to remind him of how he used to care for the younger nation, but when it’s the other way round of course he would forget, because bitchy, grumpy Romano can never do anything nice for anyone without wanting something in return. Damn it. He rolls his eyes and grabs a few sheets of kitchen towel and tears away two black garbage bags from the roll under the sink. It was a good thing they stopped by at the supermarket again on the way back from town. They’d originally gone to get the blond some after burn cream, but ended up buying a load of cleaning supplies and toiletries as well. Fuck knows what he would have done about the mess the blond had made if they hadn't. He grabs the bottle of disinfectant and slams it down on the counter before grabbing the plastic bucket at the back of the cupboard and lining it with one of the bags.

He's scrubbing away at the washcloth when there's another wave of guttural sounds from the living room, and the brunet throws the cloth into the sink, turns off the water, and grabs the bucket and the entire roll of kitchen towel with a groan. Glass of water forgotten next to the fruit salad still sitting on the counter.

He waits for the noise to stop before hesitantly entering the room. England is still collapsed on the floor where the brunet had left him, but the blond has, like he thought, once again thrown up all over the already ruined t-shirt. At least the bastard has good aim, and not made a second mess for him to have to clean. 

He places the bucket on the coffee table along with the loose bag and kitchen towel. “Here Bastard. Try to sit up.” The blond resists perfectly happy to stay curled up on the floor, but Romano needs the idiot to sit up so he can clean. It's a struggle, and the younger nation’s body is limp and heavy. It takes a lot of shoving and ‘encouraging’ words on the Italian’s part before the Englishman is propped up against the front of the sofa securely enough so he won't topple over sideways. It's only seconds later when the blond begins to gag that he realises the man’s going to be sick again. The brunet scrambles to reach for the bucket behind him just managing to thrust the plastic bowl into the other nation’s lap before the blond is emptying his stomach for the third time that evening.

He makes quick work of the mess on the floor, and flings the bag of vomit and England’s t-shirt through the back door onto the veranda outside the kitchen. He can't mop the living room floor because the stricken blond is still busy getting acquainted with the bucket, but the remaining stain is covered with a thick layer of kitchen towel sheets, so it'll do for now. It'll have to do because there's little else he can do with the blond in the way. With cleaning no longer a priority his focus shifts to getting some fluids and nutrients back into the dehydrated nation, though he's not sure if the blond can handle anything substantial just yet. He grabs a clean glass from the cabinet, fills it with water from the tap, and takes it into the blond along with the first one that had been left on the counter earlier. 

The poor bastard looks dreadful. His eyes are watery and miserable, and his skin is tight and off colour from lack of fluids. At least he has a little dignity now sitting up, instead of crumpled on the floor almost face down in the puddle of - ugh. He stops thinking about it, and kneels down next to the sickly nation a glass of water in each hand. The blond wipes his mouth with a toweling sheet and drops it into the bucket. Romano dutifully hand him a glass. “Rinse your mouth.” He does as told like an obedient child and spits the mixture of sick, bile and water into the bucket.

“...Thanks.” England refuses to look him in the eye, instead looking off to the side at nothing-in-particular. He's not surprised. It must be hard for a strong, proud nation like England to come so completely undone in front of someone else. Especially a nation he's not even familiar with let alone close to. He nudges a shaky red hand with the other glass of cold water and the blond turns to look at him as he grasps it tightly. Romano instructs the blond to drink. Peridot eyes roll in an overly dramatic fashion at the order. Despite the snark he does as told and takes a few small sips of water before passing the glass back to the brunet. If the Tea-Bastard has the energy to be sarcastic then he must be feeling better. Romano smiles, but it's quickly replaced by a frown.

“You think you can not throw your guts up long enough for me to change the bucket, Bastard?” There's a groan and the blond weakly pushes him on the chest knocking the brunet over to land on his butt. The blond rests the back of his head on the cushion of the sofa, and moments later the bucket is pushed away from the Englishman and towards him. He can't help but instinctively try to distance himself from it, and slams back-first into the edge of the solid oak coffee table with a yelp.

There's a breathy chuckle from in front of him as England eyes him with amusement, and the tanned man has to resist the urge to kick the other nation in the leg as he gets up to head to the kitchen. He can still hear England chuckling away in the other room. The fucker. Romano is smiling despite the graze across his shoulder blades. 

The last two hours had been stressful and messy, but things are starting to calm down. The weather finally broke slowly dispelling the overbearing heat, and the cool night air is a welcome reprieve for both men. The floor has been cleaned, the soiled bags disposed of in the outside collection bins, and the blond’s stomach seems to have finally settled long enough for him to keep liquids down. Romano is just thankful that the worst seems to be over. Though the bastard is still definetly not okay. He's still dreadfully dehydrated and constantly drifting in and out of consciousness, but for the moment he seem better than he has been since the whole thing started. 

The brunet’s got some chicken breast cuts roasting on a pan in the oven, and a nutritious vegetable and diced potato broth bubbling away on the stove. England is bundled up in the corner of the sofa watching TV in the other room lightly munching on some non-cremated toast with a jug of hand-squeezed cloudy lemonade sat on the end table to help hydrate him. 

Romano is proud of himself as he sips at the glass in his hand. The blond's constant stream of thanks and praise isn't bad either, but the bastard is an even worse patient than Veneziano. At least his idiot brother has the sense to stay put when he’s sick. England on the other hand keeps trying to get up and over-exert himself. The Italian is about ready to tie the sunburnt man to the sofa just to keep him still for more than five minutes. Pfft. Yeah. That’ll be the day. As if he could ever overpower England. He understands the bastard is used to looking out for himself, but the Brit just can't seem to allow himself to be doted on. Always insisting that he's perfectly fine and wants to help out in the kitchen. Not a fucking chance in Hell. 

He’s ‘fine’ alright. In fact, the bastard is so ‘fine’ he can't stay conscious for more than fifteen minutes at a time. Romano had gone back into the living room to check on the blond only to find him trying to get up off the sofa. Again. So he told the island nation to shut up and stay put, because if he didn't the brunet would slip the bastard something that would make him be quiet and behave. The room is almost silent, and the look of intrigue that cloaks the blond’s hooded peridot eyes is nothing short of predatory.

“At least buy me dinner first -.” There’s a chuckle, but the lustful unfocused look in those eyes tells Romano the feverish nation is only half joking, and not at all himself. The blond smirks. A large feral grin spreading over his face twisting it in an almost unnatural way as he blocks the startled Italian against the coffee table with his legs. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck...He can't speak. Can't even breathe as the other man looks up at him voice barely a whisper. “- I’d much rather eat you, love.” The suggestive purr and pink tongue that rolls over the toothy smirk sends the brunet's mind reeling. He should probably run away. Right now, but he can't get past the blond without scrambling backwards over the coffee table, and for some reason there’s some kind of sudden disconnection between his brain and legs. So he stands there between the blond’s knees shocked and confused, and unsure of what to do. 

Soft chuckling catches his attention, and he looks down at the blond’s face to see England grinning wickedly. Their eyes meet. The soft chuckles turning into a hearty laugh as the younger nation flops onto his side. Romano’s face burns. He’s so fucking tempted to strangle the fucking bastard, but doesn't. He does kick the sofa as he leaves, but that only makes the irritating blond laugh harder. Asshole. He can't believe - Fuck, what the hell? The fucking bastard had-!! Fuck. Maybe he should just poison the irritating fucker. He can still hear the Brit laughing away like a lunatic in the other room as he turns off the stove. As fucking irritating as it is that the bastard had made fun of him like that hearing the sound of England laughing makes him smile for some stupid reason. It’s stupid, but he can't stop fucking blushing as he checks the pan in the oven.

Silence fills the air. The sudden quiet makes him suspicious, and sure enough when he goes in to check on the bastard he finds the sunburned man has passed out again. Curled up into a ball as he lays on the sofa his breathing shallow and a pained frown on his reddened face. Damn it, he’d hoped he could get England to eat something before he fell unconscious again, but there’s not a lot he can do now except wait and hope the island nation wakes up soon. He sits down on the edge of the sofa by the man’s feet, and reaches to feel the washcloth on the blond’s forehead. It’s already dried up, so he goes to remove it when a sunburned hand grabs his wrist. Their faces are barely inches apart as England leans up angry peridot orbs glaring threateningly at the Italian.

“R-relax, Bastard. I'm-I’m just changing the cloth.” It takes a couple of seconds for the blond to understand his words, but then he just collapses back onto the sofa with a strained groan. He feels sorry for the bastard. His moods are all over the place and he’s obviously uncomfortable and insecure. He can't change the washcloth if the Brit doesn't let go of his arm though. He tugs a couple of times to try and release his wrist, but England only grumbles as he curls his knees up to his chest pulling the Italian towards him as the blond snuggles his flushed cheek against the brunet’s hand. 

D-damn it. What’s he supposed to do now? The dried up washcloth slips off the blond’s forehead, but England doesn't seem to notice seemingly content to just keep the Italian trapped there on the sofa while the younger nation drifts off. He can't escape the other’s grip not matter how much he tugs, pulls or shakes his arm, and the blond snoozes on completely unaware of the Italian’s inner turmoil. He knows the bastard is delirious and probably doesn't want to be left alone, but the situation is too fucking embarrassing for him. He also needs the other nation to let him go so he can change the washcloth, and put away the food in the kitchen, but it doesn't seem like the blond has any intention of doing so.

Damn it. How the fuck is the delirious bastard so strong? He’s unconscious, and had been throwing his guts up only a while ago. Where the hell does the bastard get this stupid strength from? He’s stuck half leaning over the blond as England clings tightly to his wrist. The continuous heavy ticks of the carriage clock on the mantle fill the air breaking the quiet as the seconds drag on into minutes. It doesn't matter how much he tries to pull away the sleepy blond clings on refusing to let go like a little child with their favourite teddy-bear. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

That’s all he hears (besides the blond’s gentle breathing) for the next half an hour, until his aching arm finally gives out, and he collapses on top of the sleeping nation. He desperately tries to pull himself away from the bastard’s body, and elbows the Brit to wake him, but England doesn't budge. He only groans when the Italian elbows him again.

His lack of strength is fucking irritating, because it shouldn't be this difficult to get away from an unconscious bastard. The younger nation’s breathing is still shallow as he shifts onto his back with a sigh, and Romano ends ups falling on top of the bastard. A reddened arm wraps itself around the Italian’s back locking him in place against the other man’s stomach. He’s vaguely aware of the gasp that rushes past his lips as England cuddles him closer p-pressing the two of them flush against each other. 

This is even worse than before. His whole body is on fire, and he can't believe this is actually fucking happening. Th-they’re too fucking close. Every time the blond exhales it sends shivers running south through the Italian’s body...Damn it, damn it, damn it! England’s shallow breathing sounds far louder in the expanse of the large room than it actually is, and he feels more than hears the other’s steady heartbeat. 

“Damn it. Let go, you snoozy bastard.” He pulls away again, but the blond’s hold on him only tightens.

The rain from London has finally caught up to them. He can hear the droplets softly hitting the glass outside. The gentle glow from the crystal glass lamp on the end table barely reaches as far across the room as the windows, and the dim light never makes it past the thick material of the blackout curtains. If the bastard wakes up now he’ll definitely get the wrong fucking idea. Petrified by the thought of waking the blond Romano just stays there sprawled out above the sleeping nation hardly breathing. England doesn't react, and after a few tense minutes the Italian hesitantly climbs over the blond’s body. 

It hadn't be easy trying to find a comfortable position to sit in, because of how England is still tightly clinging to his wrist, but eventually he’d managed to scoot his way up the sofa to sit in front of the blond’s chest. He’s still way closer to the other nation than he would like to be, but it’s better than laying on the bastard. Insecure. That’s what he keeps reminding himself as the seconds drag into minutes. 

Nation’s reactions to sickness can be fucking bizarre. Spain would get furious fits of uncontrollable rage whenever he got sick during in his empire days. Which made sense, because he was literally at war with the world back then. He remembers his former boss telling him once that nation’s emotions become really heightened when they’re sick. His own childhood sickness comes to mind. The constant paranoia and sleepless nights disturbed by horrific night terrors brought on by years of loneliness and distrust. He’d wake crying too petrified to fall back to sleep, but too exhausted to scream. He’d huddle into a ball in the corner of wherever he’d found shelter at the time, and just weep until he eventually cried himself back to sleep. 

England is sick, in a relatively unfamiliar place (the blond had said before it’s been a long time since he’d been to this house), and probably feeling really insecure. He probably just instinctively latched on to the closest source of comfort he could find. Which would be Romano given that the Italian had been taking care of the suffering nation all evening. 

An hour passes before the sleeping nation stirs. He doesn't wake just shifts slightly before falling back into a deep sleep. The grip on his wrist had loosened as the blond shifted, and he’d finally been able to slip his wrist free of the other nation. He hastily bolted from the sofa before England could grab hold of him again. He takes one final look at the sleeping Englishman before making his way to the doorway not bothering to turn out the lights. The last thing he needs is for the blond to trip over in the dark and knock himself out. As funny as that sounds in his head it really wouldn't be if it actually happened, but he can't just ignore the poor bastard no matter how out of it he is. He’s really tired. Too tired to deal with the other man anymore. He lets out a groan chewing on his thumb as he tries to decide what to do.

The island nation is feverish and delirious. He could really hurt himself, or what if he suddenly needs to throw up again? Damn it. He drags himself back into the living room snuggling into the blanket as he curls up on the second sofa opposite the one the island nation is currently sleeping on. Giving the sleeping blond a cautious glance Romano sighs and tries to relax as he listens to England’s shallow breathing. At least he’ll be close by if the blond wakes during the night, and far enough away that the bastard can't suddenly reach out and grab him again. He says a small prayer for the blond’s health to return soon, and eventually drifts off lulled into an uneasy sleep by the rhythmic ticking of the carriage clock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos. They make me really happy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos, and wonderful comments. I'm happy people are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. With that said:
> 
> I'ma just leave this here. >_> Since the last chapter was a week late I decided to upload this one a little earlier than usual. 
> 
> Warnings: Porn. Porn everywhere. Explicit, and badly written porn. Religious themes, naughty shower shenanigans, drunken shenanigans, mentions of violence, and masturbation. I think that covers everything...

_\- ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. AVE MARIA, gratia plena, Dominus tecum-_

Fingertips are pressed down hard turning his knuckles white, and his sore knees must be red and forming bruises from leaning on the cold stone floor, but he deserves it, or so he keeps telling himself, but repenting loses it’s meaning when you feel no remorse for your actions. The heavy thick cloud of incense is overpowering, and the shuffling of feet and low murmuring of voices as people exit the church is making it difficult to focus on his prayers. He’s already lost count, but it’s not like it matters. His penance is pointless in the end. Even with the greatest will in the world there’s no priest on Earth with enough divine providence to absolve him. He’s a flawed being with absolutely no desire to be saved from his sins. 

Especially not his most recent ones.

_Teeth bite down into the soft flesh of his arm to stop himself from crying out. Hips thrusting forward pressing his need into the hand squeezing tightly around him. A sudden jolt of pleasure hits him and forces his eyes closed with a gasp. He’s moaning and unable to stop. A desperate gasp rushes out from deep within his chest. Teeth bite down harder adding to the already countless angry red marks scattered across his forearm. His body shakes, and a breathless gasp slips past dry lips as he kneads at the hard flesh of his erection. Fingertips press down on the racing pulse in his neck then slide down to rub a sensitive nipple, every pinch and tug bringing him closer to sweet release._

_He feels so tense, breathless and needy, but he loves it, and pushes forward roughly to grind against his hand, back arched and feet spread. His knees are weak and shaking as he tries to stop himself from collapsing. The hot water cascades around him drowning out the soft cries falling from his lips. His hand slides up slick from the water. The sudden touch against his slit sends tanned hips thrusting forwards in anticipation. He can't stop. Fingers tighten and stroke hastily up and down his leaking erection the desperate pace driving him closer and closer to the edge. Shaking fingers disappear from his chest to grasp the rail on the wall, and the needy groans turn to desperate pants as he rocks into his fist too far gone to deny himself the pleasure he so desperately needs._

_It’s hot, so hot, and he’s coming undone. He’s biting his lip to stop from crying out at every stroke, rub and squeeze. He’s getting close. His nerves are electric as he grips the smooth plastic rail and rocks himself forward again and again into his hand. The heat is building his eyes fall shut and he moans, but it’s not enough. Not yet. “O-oh, per favore...” He calls out to no one._

Fuck. 

Olive green eyes squeeze tightly shut as he tries to ignore the flush of heat building under his skin. He’s feels so dirty, and it’s wrong how he’s getting excited when he should be repenting, but the penance prayers are nowhere near enough to shame him into feeling any guilt. 

_Et ne nos inducas in tentationem -_

The first thing he’d noticed was the blanket of heat wrapped around him as he slowly woke up from a dead sleep. There was an odd tightness around his thighs, and the familiar tingle of arousal bubbling under his skin was far too tempting to ignore. He was disorientated from just waking up, and not really paying much attention to his surroundings sleep-fogged mind pleasantly distracted by the heavy heat between his legs. He bucked into the pleasurable sensations a small sigh slipping past his lips as fingers gently stroked up and down his stiffening cock playfully tugging the foreskin down before pushing it back up over the sensitive head. He rolled his hips a couple more times body relaxed and languid as he basked in the gentle waves of pleasure.

He then noticed the firm mass of heat pressed up against his back, and a reddened arm softly draped over his waist that disappeared beneath the line of his boxers. It took him a few more seconds to register that the arm must belong to England, and as he glanced into the darkness he could see the blond was no longer sleeping on the opposite sofa where the Italian had left him. (He didn't think about it until later on, but the the Englishman must have switched off the lights, because Romano definitely remembers purposefully leaving them on.) The realisation that it wasn't his hand he was grinding into finally kicked in, and he snapped back to harsh reality. 

The final thing he noticed before freaking out was the hot, hard heat fervently trusting against the curve of his ass through the back of his boxers. England’s hips pressed snugly to the Italian’s behind as the blond rutted his rock hard erection against the confused brunet’s backside. He’d been too startled to react not really understanding how the hell this had happened. The blond had been fast asleep on the opposite sofa the last time Romano had checked. He panicked stumbling forward almost falling over thanks to his shorts getting snagged up around his knees the tightness he felt around his thighs earlier made sense now. England must have pulled his shorts down. The blond whined in protest, and the needy sound made the Italian’s cock jump in instinctual desire. 

It took him a few more seconds to really register just what had just been happening, but those few moments were all the Englishman needed to reach forward and grab the brunet’s arm spinning him around. The Brit’s lustful gaze took his breath away. Hooded peridot orbs glazed with desire, desperation, and raw need. He made the mistake of looking down not wanting to look the other nation in the eye, and fuck, he feels his whole body flush at the memory of the bastard’s rock hard cock, dark red, thick, and dribbling precome. He actually gasped at the sight, and the man whined again stroking the Italian’s arm reassuringly as the blond’s other reddened hand closed around the tent in Romano’s boxers trying to coax the brunet to rejoin him on the sofa.

He contemplated it for a second. The sight of the blond flushed, desperate, and needy combined with the tantalizing fingers rubbing his own cock made Romano throb and harden in his boxers. His panicked rational mind finally caught up, and he hastily pulled up his shorts fleeing upstairs as fast as his unsteady feet would take him. He ignored his own arousal feeling disgusted at how the Tea-Bastard had just taken advantage of him while he was sleeping, and then he felt guilty because the bastard was obviously still out of it, and he can't really blame the blond for his actions if he’s not in control of himself. After making sure for the fourth time that the door to the guest room was mostly definitely securely locked he allowed himself to relax, and eventually fell back to sleep. 

He’d been embarrassed when he’d woken up later that morning boxers far too tight and wet with precum. The soft cotton sheets clung to his sweat-soaked body as he instinctively ground into the pillow that had somehow found its way between his legs. It had been a while since the last time he’d gotten that aroused in his sleep, but it wasn't just the embarrassment at his nocturnal excitement that had the Italian feeling hot. His thoughts kept drifting back to the Englishman downstairs. The wave of desire that hit him as he recalled the heat of the blond’s body rutting against his sent the Italian cautiously rushing to the bathroom to quickly relieve himself in the shower.

The fact that he’d gotten aroused from what had happened with England earlier that morning mixed with the realisation that he’d gotten hard from remembering it had the brunet feeling sick to his stomach. He isn't interested to the nation at all, but his mind and body seem to be in disagreement over the man at the moment, and he doesn't know how to feel about it. 

There’s no way in hell he’d tell some random English priest about his very recent sins. He can imagine the horrified look on the man’s face now were he to confess. “Father, forgive me because I’m such a horny bastard I came twice while fantasising about a man I hardly even know, and I'm not even sorry because it felt amazing and I fucking loved every second of it.” Romano has always been weak to temptation, especially pleasure. He loves sex. Sure he prefers woman they’re soft and cute, and smell nice, but fuck! The mixture of panic and pleasure that wrecked him as the blond ground against him on the sofa that morning had apparently made the Italian so hot his body couldn't stand it. 

He’s still in church. He shouldn't be thinking about this now. He groans and gets up from the floor. The elderly lady waves goodbye, and the man beside her; probably her husband, gives a nod of acknowledgement as the brunet makes his way to the door. He’d run into the pair that morning, and the woman had invited him to sit next to them during mass. He’d run into them again as he was leaving the confessional.

_The fingers around his weeping erection tighten before letting go. His hips buck, and he can't choose between just stroking himself or thrusting into his hand. His movements are sloppy, and he keeps losing his rhythm as he slips on the wet floor, but his hips won't stop as he bites his lip and moans. His thumb slides along the long thick vein all the way up his erection to rub over his leaking slit. He stills at the touch. Too intense, but his hand won't stop. He strokes lightly to get used to the feeling picking up speed as the pleasure builds again. Fuck it feels good, so, so good, but it’s not enough._

_He wants to be inside of something. To feel the heat around him as he cums hard. He imagines the blond downstairs his peridot eyes clouded with lust merciless tongue lapping at the Italian’s weeping slit. He mimics the licks with his thumb writhing in need as it slides and rolls over the sensitive tip. O-oh god. Please, please, please. England deepthroats him in his fantasy, and his hand clasps tight over the head of his cock sliding up and down again and again. He pumps his fist faster unable to stop the moans tumbling from his lips. “Per favore! Per favore! Inghilterra, per favore!”_

He passes the priest too ashamed to look the man in the eyes, and doesn't bother to make the sign of the cross at the altar, or dare to touch the bowl of holy water as he exits the church. 

The way that blond bastard had rocked against him earlier that morning had the Italian’s every nerve standing on end in panic and anticipation. It was no wonder he got excited, and ended up masturbating in the shower. He’d cum so hard his whole body was shaking at the intensity of his orgasm. His legs gave out as he came down from his high, and he collapsed onto the floor of the shower room still stroking his cock greedily milking himself for every last spark of pleasure he could get. He watched his seed trickled down the drain with lust-glazed eyes gently rolling his hips as he rode out the afterglow in post-orgasm bliss. 

He continued to knead his cock with his fingers hips rocking up into his hand as a heavy pressure beginning to build in his balls. His hips fell still, and he picked up speed with his hand desperately stroking himself faster and faster until the pleasure spiked. He came dry with a loud groan his body tense and hips lunging forward as his second orgasm hit him hard. The explosive ecstasy coursing through his entire body from somewhere deep inside. He was breathless and gasping for air as he slumped back against the wall of the shower. His whole body pulsing as the odd spasm hit him making his cock jump as it throbbed between his spread legs. He sat against the slick tiles panting, delirious and completely spent. 

Damn it, he needs to stop thinking about it. Get a drink or something, and calm down.

He has an overactive sexdrive. He blames Spain completely. The bastard had never once reined him in for it. In fact the bastard had only ever indulged him. Puberty had been such a fucking pain in the ass. He’d been such an awkward dork back then too shy to even talk to women (apart from Belgium) let alone approach one for sex, and despite spending most nights trying to relieve himself nothing he did was ever enough to calm his raging hormones for long. 

By some miracle Spain, despite being an oblivious moron who can't usually read the atmosphere had somehow figured out what was bothering the moody young teen, and asked the Italian about it. That was one of the most embarrassing conversations he’d ever had with his former guardian, but from then on the empire had made a point of sending a servant girl to Romano’s chambers every morning and night to see to the Italian’s ‘needs’. 

Asshole. It's completely that bastard’s fault he’s ended up this way now.

England had been completely out of it from his fever, and the Italian is disgusted with himself for allowing his imagination to take advantage of the situation to feed his sexual desires. Thankfully the bastard was still asleep on the sofa when he’d left that morning. He’d noticed the empty bowl and jug on the coffee table when he looked into the living room to check on the blond, and he felt better knowing the other nation had eaten something more substantial than just a slice of dry toast. Heading into the room to retrieve the empty bowl and jug Romano desperately tried to ignore the heat that rushed through him at the obvious trail of cum splattered on the blond’s chest. He bolted from the house red-faced and heart pounding bowl and jug forgotten on the coffee table.

People are clustered around the church grounds peacefully chattering away as the late morning sun shines down from the cloudless sky above. The air is heavy and humid, and the rare breeze that occasionally rolls past doesn’t last long enough to be of any relief, but despite the horribly uncomfortable heat and blistering sunshine all he can see are smiling faces as England’s people enjoy the unusual weather. He really doesn't want to move out from under the shaded porch perfectly content to stay there in the dark and hide from the blinding light. It’s so annoying how they can all just stand there without a care in the world while he feels like total shit. In the distance he can hear the squeals of children playing, and the everyday noises of bustling city life. It’s all so fucking perfect, but nothing out of the ordinary. It’s summer, so of course it’s going to be hot, and for a nation constantly battered by heavy rain and chilling cold any brief spell of sun must be a blessing. It’s no fucking wonder people are out and about making the most of it while they can. He’s such a hypercritical bastard.

He keeps reminding himself he doesn't like England; the shitty nation or the man himself, and he’d feel much better if he was at home taking a siesta on his nice comfy bed hiding from the hot midday Sicilian sun. He kind of wants to do that anyway. It's too hot, and had caught the Italian competently off guard in his stuffy church attire. The bastard’s weather is shit even when it isn't; either too hot or too cold, the food is shit too, and the bastard and his people confuse the fuck out of him. 

He’d been fine only twenty minutes ago, but the realisation that he would have to face the blond at some point scared the shit out of him. What if England hadn't been as out of it as the Italian thought? What if the blond remembers the incident on the sofa? He just wants to forget it ever happened and move on, but if the island nation does remember then he doubts they’ll be about to just pretend like nothing had happened. The Italian isn't going to be able to face the bastard for a while without thinking about it. England may not even care happy to just accept that he was feverish, and not thinking straight. He snorts. Doubtful.

He pivots on one foot trying to get high enough to plaster his butt onto the solid sandstone wall surrounding the porch of the church. It’s barely wide enough to sit on, but it’s better than standing around on his aching feet in his fancy but far-too-tight Sunday shoes. The edges of the stones are sharp against his palms and tanned fingers dig painfully into the rough surface as he hoists himself up on to the wall. He swivels around to plant his back against the outside of the stone building and watches with disinterest as life carries on around him.

The old stones are cold against his back and he can feel the heat of the sun on his face even though the rays can't reach him in his current hiding spot. His pulls his legs up and tries to not topple over. He already feels like an idiot he doesn't need to draw any unnecessary attention to himself by doing something stupid like falling off a wall. The heels of his shoes scuff against the stone as he swings his feet up onto the slabs, not like it matters; he’s got another five pairs at home, and he’s probably got dust all over his back and ass anyway. One knee is bent and pulled tight to his chest the other stretched out in front of him. It’s not exactly comfortable, and the flat surface is making his ass go numb, but he’s not going to move unless he has to. It’s nice and cool, and dark under the porch roof. 

His suit jacket pulls tight as he curls his arms into his chest defensively, tight and secure the wrist bearing his designer Swiss watch is rested on a clothed knee with fingertips curled and pressing into the smooth fabric. His other wrist is sat on top of the first and a stray finger is loosely drawing swirling patterns into the empty air while he gazes out at nothing-in-particular. He wants to go home and forget about everything. Forget about earlier. Forget about England, and forget about his own stupid conflicting feelings. He can't bring himself to face the other nation which is fucking ridiculous. The things he should really feel ashamed for the blond doesn't even know about. 

He shifts a little from side to side trying to take the pressure off his numb behind. Would England blame himself? Probably, if the bastard does remember, but he’s so proud he probably wouldn't even mention it. Just sit in awkward silence pretending like nothing happened. The sick feeling welling up in his chest is overwhelming. He just wants to pretend it was all a dream, and that nothing had happened. As much as he enjoyed his jerk off in the shower he can't shake the anxiety he’s feeling from thinking about how the other nation will react when they see each other again. Maybe the blond won't remember. Yeah right, when has he ever been that lucky? It would be a miracle if he didn't though, because then Romano could just act like nothing had happened. It would be difficult, because he’d probably get embarrassed, and act like a total fucking moron as soon as he sees the bastard.

He’s never going to know if England does remember or not until he can work up the courage to actually go back to the other nation’s place and face him. It isn't just fear that’s stopping him from leaving the church, and going back to check on the blond. He feels fucking ashamed on top of everything else. He really doesn't have any kind of romantic interest in the Brit, and he doesn't find him even the slightest bit attractive either, but he can't get the image of the bastard’s desperate face, or the feeling of the man’s hot body rutting against him out of his head. The whole situation had been scary and intense, but also insanely exciting, and he feels disgusted with himself for getting off on it (twice). It wasn't until he really started thinking about the situation more that Romano began to feel seriously nauseous and conflicted, because he’d never believed he’d find being molested by a near complete stranger (let alone another nation) so fucking arousing. 

He feels awful. The blond had been out of it, and Romano had let his guard down not thinking for a second the other nation might suddenly do something so totally unexpected like jump him in his sleep. It was just a mistake. He’s sure the blond hadn't done it intentionally, so he should really just stop freaking himself out about the whole thing, and go back to England’s, so they can clear things up and move on like mature adults. Besides, if the island nation does remember then he probably feels a hundred times worse than Romano does right now. Despite having been molested in his sleep the Italian strangely doesn't really feel like he’s been violated. He’d panicked at the time, but he can't deny how aroused he got as got off (twice) in the shower while fantasising about the blond. That thought sent his mind reeling in all sorts of weird and horrible directions, because he’s definitely aware of how his body heats up every time he thinks of the Englishman now. He forces himself to stop thinking about the situation for a minute trying to get his mind back on track. Which is fucking difficult when you’re mixed up, and also completely disgusted with yourself. 

He’s too fucking conflicted to focus properly on anything right now. Instead he pulls his other leg up to his chest to try and hide himself ignoring the flush on his cheeks biting his lip in annoyance. He’s not really surprised by the physical reaction to his fantasising, but it’s really fucking embarrassing how he’d lost it and actually came from imaging himself cumming all over those hideous eyebrows. Seriously what the fuck? His body is still wired from his mind-blowing session in the shower that morning, and he’s emotionally wrecked from all the stress and anxiety.

He has to wonder though what the island nation had been thinking as he masturbated on the sofa after Romano had fled upstairs. The thought of the blond touching himself and getting off while thinking about the Italian sends a wave of heat through his groin. It was just a mistake, a freak one-time thing, so it’s fucking stupid how he’s sat there agonising like this over it. He’s so fucking stressed he’s over-thinking and stressing himself out more. The blond is presumably back at his home, possibly still sleeping while he’s stuck here trying to stop himself from dying of shame. England is a mother-fucking bastard for doing this to him. A total fucking son-of-a-bitch, and Romano wants to punch the fucker right in his cute freckled nose again and again until the blond’s a bloody broken mess. Fuck! 

There’s a sudden loud noise and it scares him enough to nearly lose his balance and fall over the edge of the wall. Olive green orbs scan over the gap in his knees as he sits forward and leans up a bit to get a better look. Directly in front of him is a very obvious crack running up the mortar lining the pillar of stones that hold up the roof. There’s also a dull throbbing pain in his ankle. Well, shit. He’s just lucky the old structure hadn't come down on top of him with how hard he must have kicked it. How fucking sad would that be? Getting crushed to death while wallowing in his own self-pity. Thinking about it, he wouldn't get crushed to death; he is a nation, but it would still fucking hurt. He holds back a frown and flexes his fingers.

Thanks to his near heart-attack he’s even more nauseous than before, though the scare has helped bring him back to reality. If nothing else he feels a bit calmer. He gingerly tries to pull his injured leg back up to his chest, but quickly changes his mind when his ankle screams at him not to move it. It’s probably fucking broken which sucks because he doesn't want to have to call a taxi to take him to a hospital. That really would be the perfect end to a perfect fucking day. There’s a sharp shooting pain when tries to bend his foot, but he can move it. Just about. It’s seriously painful, but hopefully it’s not broken. He probably won't be able to make the twenty minute walk back to the Tea-Bastard’s house after getting off the bus though. Shit. He’s still not ready to face the other nation yet, but he’s got to go back to the blond’s place at some point.

There’s a chance England might not want to see him. Might even get embarrassed and lash out at the brunet (like he had just done a second ago), but Veneziano had said England is a ‘gentleman’ now, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean, so he doubts the bastard would get upset with him...If Veneziano is comfortable enough around the blond to defend him why the fuck had he complained about coming here? Why isn't his shithead of a brother here doing his own work instead of him? Oh right, because England doesn't like the little shit, and Romano had asked for some work to do. The northern bastard is probably off screwing the fucking Macho Potato while he’s here driving himself insane. 

He tries to distract himself so he doesn't end up thinking about this morning again, but he can't stop himself from wondering. What would've happened if he hadn't run away upstairs? What would England have done? Would he have jerked them off like he had been before Romano left, or, or would he have tried to take things further, and try to-to fuck him right there on the sofa? If the bastard grabbed hold of him like how he had done last night when Romano had tried to change the washcloth then the Italian wouldn't have been able to escape even if he wanted to. The former empire could have easily pinned him down, and done whatever the hell he wanted to the weaker nation. A wave of embarrassed hits him. He’s thinking about it too fucking much. He drops his head down on his arms trying to hide his flushed cheeks. 

He thinks of the least sexual things he can imagine to distract himself from anymore unwanted thoughts: his fucking shithead of a brother, Spain, the muscle-head German-Potato, the Albino German-Potato, potatoes in general, Spain, Turkey, England’s eyebrows (he groans at this one), Spain. He settles on thinking about Spain; to stop himself from fantasising about England (or his eyebrows), or pretty girls like Belgium, pretty, sexy Belgium, damn it! Even America with his loud mouth and obnoxious personality is too much of a temptation at the moment. Romano can't deny the energetic blond has a gorgeous body, but he ruins it with that stupid bullshitting mouth of his.

An irritated sigh escapes and he raises a hand to brush back the hairs that have fallen on his face - he’ll need to get it cut soon. He cools off a little as he thinks of his former guardian, and nearly gags when he imagines the older man trying to put the moves on him. Ugh. He never entertains the idea of having sex with the Tomato-Bastard no matter how sexy he is. He can appreciate the man is attractive, very attractive, and undeniably alluring when he puts his mind to it, but that doesn't mean the Italian has any desire to fuck around with him. 

Hell no, they’d attempted it once after the world had finally deemed the Italian old enough to finally be claimed by the former empire, but the experience had been so traumatising for the both of them that neither brunet ever dared mention it again. God, he was such a fucking idiot back then. He rubs his face trying to forget the embarrassing memories. Just thinking about it is still embarrassing now. With all the wars Spain had been fighting on his behalf at the time he hates his younger self for being so spoiled and self-indulged. It's really pathetic to think that the only things he really concerned himself with back then were when his next meal was going to be and getting off as much as possible (and not getting caught). He never knew or cared how much his boss had been suffering because of him, until that time he caught the poor bastard getting chewed out by his queen. 

Spain had defended him without hesitation, even though trying to keep hold of the southern Italian territory was bleeding the nation dry. Things changed then, and he realised just how much the Tomato-Bastard really had sacrificed to support the Italian’s carefree lifestyle. He desperately wanted to do something for his boss to thank the bastard for all the hardships he’d suffered due to raising a useless, spoiled brat like him. He just didn't have any clue on how he could do it. 

He got his chance late one dark winter evening. The staff had been quarantined due to an epidemic spreading through the staff, and Spain run even more ragged with work than usual had missed dinner. Romano had decided to take it upon himself to cook for the empire knowing the bastard wouldn't even spare a second to think to eat unless it was placed directly down in front of him. The food turned out good, and he’d even cleaned up once he was finished without destroying the kitchen. Spain had praised him, and he’d been extremely happy with himself. The older brunet had accidentally rubbed his curl as he petted the young territory, and the soft caresses mixed with the heartfelt praises and gratitude his boss was showering him with did something to the younger nation’s body. 

He wiggles a bit trying to get comfortable not wanting to recall what had happened next. It’s just too fucking embarrassing even now. A lone man wanders into view. He doesn't pay any attention to the brunet; probably doesn't even notice him sat there on the wall as he walks on out of sight. The various groups of chattering civilians have broken up and moved on leaving Romano alone in the churchyard. He looks up at the few wispy clouds as they drift by caught up in the cool breeze as it slowly wafts past. He sees it in the trees more than feels it, but the momentary drop in temperature is bliss against his heated skin.

The melancholy memories don't do anything to help his mood, so he tries to think of something else to distract himself with. The memory of the gentle touches to his curl reminded him of how Spain has always been really fascinated by them. The older nation used to hassle the younger nation about it when they lived together from time to time not, but he didn't know why the man seemed so interested in the odd strand of hair back then. Admittedly he’s always been mystified by the strange family feature himself. He’d discovered at a really young age (back when Grandpa was still around) that playing with his curl feels really nice, but if he touched it too much his body would start to feel really feel hot like he had a fever. It really scared him, so he tried his best to avoid touching the weird curl as much as possible. He also discovered after a fight with his brother that pulling the curl too hard really, really hurts. He started instinctively attacking anyone who dared to try and touch the odd strand of hair (Spain included) not trusting them to not pull on it, and purposefully try to hurt him. Of course, when he hit puberty that all changed. He suddenly couldn't stop himself from touching it, and the strange feverish heat that always scared him as a kid suddenly became really, really addictive, and he couldn't get enough of it. He still didn't let anyone anyone else touch it though.

It wasn't until many years later that he realised just how sensitive the strand really is. If touched, rubbed, or even sucked (he’s experimented quite a bit) the right way he can actually cum just from playing with his curl long enough. He’d kept the weird discovery a strictly guarded secret not wanting any curious nations to try and exploit it, but he did decide to tell Veneziano one day as they sat outside drinking coffee curious to see if his brother’s curl shared the same orgasmic quality that his does. He’d been really surprised when the younger Italian had told him he didn't even know touching his curl could feel that good. 

Not believing the idiot thinking he was just embarrassed by it or something Romano proceeded to twirl his brother’s curl around his finger to prove his point, but Veneziano didn't react. Not right away. It took quite a bit of rubbing and twirling to get any kind of reaction at all, and it really surprised him because if anyone had assaulted his curl that much he would have probably cum already. His brother had apparently made a discovery of his own though. The strange hair can apparently somehow change shape forming a heart when the Italian is really happy, but Romano didn't believe it until he actually saw it for himself. Veneziano had been happily dancing around the kitchen while making lunch one day, because the Potato-Bastard and Japan were coming to visit, and then it just happened. Shocked he grabbed the idiot by the arm to hold him in place so the older Italian could inspect the strange phenomenon, and the little shit laughed at him saying that Romano’s own curl does it sometimes too. It made sense then why Spain had always been so amazed by it.

He smiles a little at the fond memory as he looks up at the afternoon sun. He’s been sitting there for the past two hours just trying to avoid the issue, but he’s going to have to just get over it and face the blond. He can't just sit outside in the churchyard forever, and if things do go badly he could just leave, and go run to Spain or something until everything blew over. He juggles his phone out of his pocket so he can look up the nearest firm, and call for a taxi to come get him. 

He switches the device on (he turned it off before Mass as he always does), and can't believe his eyes at the little red numbers indicating how many missed calls, voicemails, and unread text messages he has. Eight missed calls, five voice-messages, and twelve texts to be exact. One of the calls is from his brother and two from France, the Bearded-Bastard had also left him a voice message. There’s a single text from Spain, and all the other calls and messages are from England. He reads the text from Spain first:

 _Morning Roma!_

_It’s a beautiful day here today! The sky is clear and the tomatoes are looking really good this year so Boss will come over and give you some when they’re ready…_

Nothing unusual there.

_...or maybe you'll come visit me this time?..._

Maybe...He reads the rest of the message uninterested, until he skims down three paragraphs to the end of the message: 

_...Are you still at Church? Francia tried to call but you didn't pick up so he called me to ask where you are. He says you aren't at England’s right now so I said you would be at Church. He sounded really happy! Something about Eyebrows and kisses? Did something happen? Did he attack you?! Are you okay? Do I need to get my axe? Please be safe! Love you, Boss! xxx_

France is at England’s? Right, the bastard had called before to say he’d be coming over. He checks the time of Spain's message; twelve forty-seven, France had called just after twelve, and the voice message was left at twenty-past one. England and k-kisses?! Had the Tea-Bastard said something? Shit, that would be the last thing he needs. Except they hadn't kissed. Maybe the blond couldn't remember correctly? Fuck, does that mean the Tea-Bastard thinks they’d kissed?!! He hesitates for a second before listening to the bearded pervert’s voicemail: 

_“Allo, Romano! Big brother tried to call but could not get through. Cher Espagne said you would still be at church. What a good boy you are!-”_

There’s shuffling in the background, and France's voice raises two octaves as he cries down the phone. 

_“Come back soon please! Darling Angleterre is very distressed, and I need renforceme-MON DIEU!! Angleterre please put down the bottle! We don't wan-OW!-”_

He can hear the sound of a struggle, and the noises get slightly more distant. France shouts at England to stop pulling his hair, and faintly in the background he can also hear the younger blond’s irritated voice, but he can't understand the words. There's a loud thump and a crash like shattering glass, and the sounds of the struggle become muffled and further away for a few minutes until there’s another noise and France cursing clearly into the receiver. It sounded like fucking chaos. 

_”Allo Romano? Big brother really has to go now, Mon Petit Chou is trying to get to the car, but please I beg you! Come back as soon as you get this message! Mon Ange is being so very difficult right no-OUCH! Angleterre that is enough! Oui it is Romano, now please calm do-OW! You despicable hooligan!!!-”_

...and that was it.

He stares at the device for a few seconds just trying to absorb everything. Romano had gone to church, France had turned up at England's house, and found the brunet wasn't there, so he called Spain. Made sense so far. Spain texted him, because the Italian hadn't responded to any of the calls or messages, even though Mass had been over for a while. Right. France still hadn't heard anything back so had tried to call Romano a second time, because he needed help dealing with an apparently out of control Englishman. Okay, but why was England so upset? Romano feels like an idiot for even asking himself. He should probably listen to the rainy nation's messages, and read the texts first. That should clear things up a little, maybe. He opens the first of the eleven texts the blond had sent him that morning, and bites his lip swinging his legs over the edge of the wall careful to avoid hurting his throbbing ankle.

_Morning, Romano._  
_How are you? Where are you? Are you okay?_  
_England_

That was abrupt. He’d expected something a little more eloquent from the bastard to be honest. He didn't want to read anymore. The blond sounded angry after all. He reads the next box.

_Hello again._  
_I am truly very sorry. Please answer my calls or at least text so I know you’re alright._

He’s sorry? Damn it. The blond really does remember, and he’s blaming himself, and freaking out apparently because the Italian had left without telling his host where he was going. He really didn't expect that kind of concern from a prideful nation like England. Did the blond think he’d left because of what happened? Shit. At least he isn't upset with him. They could probably talk it over, and put the whole thing behind them since they both feel bad about it.

_Romano please answer me!_  
_I understand if you’re angry with me, I’m truly sorry. Just please text me as soon as you get this._

Fuck. The Tea-Bastard was really agonising over it wasn't he. Like he had been earlier. They’re both idiots. England had been sick, and Romano had gotten swept up in the pace that was all. No big deal. 

_Sorry to bother you again._  
_I get it if you want to leave, but your stuff is here so you’ll have to come get it before you go._

Fuck. That was bad. Did the bastard really think that Romano wanted to leave? He bites his lip harder. Well, he had wanted to leave, but he was really just venting and trying to calm down because he felt ashamed of himself. The message sounded weird though. The blond sounded angry, or is he just imagining it?

_Romano! You fucking git! Answer ur phone._

Definitely not imagining it. Shit.

_U hate me don't u? Because u won't answer. I said sorry answer me!_

_don't b an arse_

_ansr me_

_ur a git I hate u_

_Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuupid moron git bellend_

Was, was the bastard drunk? He sounded drunk. As if the lack of punctuation and terrible grammar aren't obvious clues. He can't help but stare at the 'words' and insults in disbelief.

_I hate u ur a git I don't wanna talk to u not gonna kiss u if u don't come back and ur wine is shit so I threw it at francy pants coz he's a wino stupid frog and ur a horrible git coz y won't u answer me_

What. The. Fuck?! It took him ten minutes to make sense of the garbled mess of words and text speak. The blond bastard was definitely smashed off his face - on his fucking wine! You don't just waste perfectly good wine like that, damn it! That bastard. What the fuck? Maybe he should just go back and tip all of England's fucking cheap nasty beer down the fucking drain. See how he likes it. Fucker. "Not gonna kiss you.” He hopes to God that it's just a typo and the blond meant to say "not gonna miss you" because he really doesn't want to think about the implications of those words if it wasn't. Fuck!

He waits a minute for the shock to wear off telling himself the blond is just drunk and confused before listening to the voice-mails. It’s the same as the texts. At first England sounded fine if not a bit worried, but the later messages were full of crying and pleas for the brunet to forgive him. The blond wasn't even sure what he was apologising for, but he felt like he should, because it can't of been pleasant for the Italian to have to care for him while he was sick (yeah, no shit). England hadn't mentioned the incident on the sofa, and that gave him hope that the bastard might not actually remember the incident after all. He'd never imagined the bastard would feel so bad about getting sick, so he really doesn't want to think about how the blond would feel should he remember what else he’d done that night.

The problem is the blond had gone and drunk himself stupid, and is now giving France a hard time. Not that he really gave a shit about that last bit. He’s more concerned that England had been so upset he’d got himself smashed in the first place. On his fucking wine!

The entire situation is ridiculous. He copies the number from France’s voice-mails, so he can text the bearded nation to come and pick him up. He's still unsure about seeing the younger blond, but he really can't avoid him forever, so he distracts himself after sending France the message by rereading England's stupid drunken texts. It's nice in a way because the island nation is no different than anyone else. He has a sense of humour, and does stupid shit like sending drunk texts when he gets stressed and drinks himself stupid. 

He’s still seriously angry about the wine though.

~~

It was almost ten pm by the time the two nations and currently snoozing half-nation finally arrived back ‘home’ after being given the all clear to leave the Fracture Clinic. About bloody time; he’s knackered, and sitting in that uncomfortable plastic chair waiting for Romano to get his ankle cast fitted had made the Englishman extremely irritable. It wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been for France going on about things he doesn't care about, such as his drunken shenanigans (to which he had apologised profusely to Romano for), and the current gossip spiralling through Europe. Did you know that Latvia had caught Belarus and Lithuanian making out last Wednesday? No, he hadn't known either, and he still doesn't care, but apparently the Italian was very interested in the information, and England found himself trapped between the two gossiping Europeans wishing someone would please shoot him, or at least fetch him a nice hot brew. 

He could have happily dozed off and slept away his hangover until the brunet was mended and ready to be discharged, but no. Romano had grown bored since the conversation had dried up, and already extremely aggravated by the long waiting time had for some unbeknown reason decided to vent his frustration by kicking the leg of his chair with his uninjured foot causing it to scrape horribly against the tiled floor. The resulting sound was like nails on a chalkboard to the Brit’s still slightly hungover ears, and he had to bite down on his knuckles to stop himself from laying the irritating bugger out. 

He can't remember much else about the past two days in all honesty, apart from having a horrendous sunburn that is starting to peel, and fighting with the bloody Frog, but there isn't anything particularly strange about either of those things, considering it is summer, and France; the sodding prat, just loves to rile him up given half the chance. He vaguely remembers olive green eyes, and the feeling of smooth caramel skin under his fingers, but it's mostly all a blur, so he may have just dreamt it. More than likely, he honestly can't picture the Italian willingly doing something like that with him. With Spain yes, since they are apparently lovers now, but not with him.

He hadn't really believed it at first when the Spaniard had announced it very, very loudly at the EU meeting last month. The same one where Germany - no, now is not the time to think about that. Regardless, Spain has a habit of over-dramatising things, but Belgium had confirmed it, and the blond has no reason to doubt her. So given that they hardly know each other, and the brunet is currently seeing that insufferable dolt, Spain, it seems extremely unlikely that Romano would suddenly jump the Englishman and proceed to start trying to ‘play’ on the sofa. It's more likely he’d simply imagined it in his delirious fevered state. Of course there is always the possibility that he may have been the one who had initiated it, but if that were the case he’s sure he’d be sporting a black-eye for his efforts. The more likely scenario is that the entire event had simply been another of the ‘fever dreams’ he’d been suffering through the sunstroke. 

The brunet is gorgeous, absolutely stunning in his dark suit with that adorable frown and those beautiful olive green eyes of his, (though he’d never say so lest he be murdered in his sleep, either by the mafia or that pillock, Spain). It’s really no wonder his stricken mind had chosen Romano to created the wildly vivid fantasies it had. Not only had the two been spending quite a bit of time together over the last few days, but he can't deny that he is incredibly attracted to the Italian. He chides himself for having such improper thoughts about the brunet. Even if he is simply recalling a beautifully scandalous dream it’s still highly disrespectful to the southern nation. 

He’d very much like to believe that it had all been a dream, but despite the gaps in his memory the feeling of the other’s body pressed against his own seemed so real, and the Englishman can still recall the other's naturally intoxicating scent as they laid together, but without knowing exactly how such a thing had occurred the blond really can't be sure anything actually had.

Romano’s reaction the moment he’d seen the Englishman earlier that afternoon had cleared things up somewhat. Something had definitely happened between them. Something that had the Italian extremely on edge. The other nation had been cagey with him the entire evening refusing to look the blond in the eye or even speak to him. His refusal to answer any of the blond’s questions when he had a moment to ask while France went to the loo hadn't helped piece anything together either. He’d hate to think he’d somehow taken advantage of his guest in his fevered state, so he’d apologised just in case hoping to try and draw some kind of clarification from the irritated Italian.

After a fair bit of probing Romano did eventually open up, although somewhat reluctantly. He hates himself for feeling rather disappointed at the news that their passionate romp on the sofa had been nothing but a delicious hallucination, but it’s just as well. At least Spain has no grounds to kill him now, however that hadn't explained why the brunet had been so distant to him all evening. It took a little more interrogating until the Italian finally told him the whole story. He’d been ill (he already knew that much), and Romano had very kindly taken care of him. At some point the blond had become a little insecure, and latched on to the Italian refusing to let go until he fell asleep. Romano had been startled and embarrassed by the event which isn't surprising. The brunet’s tale of how England had apparently captured the other nation and held him captive on the sofa for well over an hour, and proceeded to cuddle the poor Italian like a teddy bear until finally passing out is bloody embarrassing. He can't blame the brunet for feeling awkward he was just as embarrassed as the Italian retold the tale of last night’s events to him. His love for cuddling is something he'd rather keep secret, especially from other nations, so he hopes he can trust the Italian not to go and spread the information.

He’d wanted to believe the brunet was lying, or was trying to pull some kind of elaborate prank, but the blush on those tanned cheeks told him it was the truth. Bloody hell. He’d never live it down should Romano feel like telling anyone else, but at least he can rest assured knowing that he hadn't tried to assault the brunet, and his fevered delusions had been just that. 

He really needs a date, or at least a one-time hook up if his mind is conjuring up such detailed fantasies, especially at the Italian’s expense, but he outright refuses to accept any of France's offers for a ‘quicky’; he still has his pride thank-you-very-much. Speaking of the Frog. The irritating surrender monkey has been giving him odd, annoying leers all evening. The younger blond had caught the pervert trying to jump him from behind in the shower, (though he can't quite recall how he’d managed to get there in the first place or why he’d failed to lock the door) but he’s used to the idiot’s perverted antics by now. He’d kicked the insufferable git out of the bathroom so he could shower in peace, and that’s the last clear memory he has before France lugging his sorry drunken arse to the car to fetch Romano from church. The rest of his memory is still rather hazy. 

His thoughts quickly return to the sexy Italian. As amusing as it would be to try and steal the gorgeous brunet from that idiot, Spain, he’s not really interested in going to war with the bastard at the moment, and doing so just to beat the idiot senseless for lack of having anything better to do wouldn't be fair to Romano. He’s sure the Italian would not be too thrilled should his lover ‘accidentally’ die during the quarrel. It would certainly be interesting to fight his former rival again (political affairs had become rather stale as of late), but the very notion is ridiculous. Portugal would surely get a kick out of it, but he’s not in the business of purposefully ruining relationships just for a bit of amusement, and he knows better than to hope that the Portuguese man would get jealous should England find himself with a drop-dead gorgeous Italian in his bed. He really doesn't want to think about Portugal at the moment though. He’s tired enough as it is.

He loves the older nation. He really does. Always has, and he hates how they’re not speaking again, or at least how he’s not speaking to Portugal again at the moment to be perfectly frank. He’s actually blocked the brunet’s number this time, so he can't be tempted by the loving words the man constantly showers him with. It makes his heart ache just thinking about it. Portugal loves to flirt, and the part that makes it all so tragic is that he only ever flirts like that with him. Just him. England dies a little inside every time the man looks at him longingly, or calls him ‘love’, or ‘darling’, and tries to sneakily intertwine their fingers. 

He’s not stupid or naive he knows all the lingering touches and sweet nothings really are just that; nothing. It breaks his heart knowing that to Portugal it’s all just a game, and England can only will himself to play along for so long before his resolve crumbles. He chases the man away with angry swears and violent gestures only for them not to speak for a month or two before it starts all over again. 

Anyone else would have run a mile by now with how nasty the blond can be, but no matter how much England needs him to the cheeky brunet just won't leave him alone for good. They make a show of being ‘husbands’ mainly to agitate Spain, but also because his ‘darling’ simply loves to keep feeding the rumour mill. He hates it, but he loves the man’s smile, so he keeps torturing himself just for that. Portugal is dating Netherlands. He must never forget, as if he could. The two were already together long before England had fallen for the older brunet. He never had a chance from the beginning, he reminds himself bitterly. 

He’s honestly thankful the Dutchman isn't perturbed by his lover’s adulterous behaviour toward the Englishman. He respects Netherlands. He’s a good man. He doesn't want there to be any unnecessary hostilities between them, and despite having only ever given the taller blond just cause to mistrust him (politically, anyway) he doesn't. Netherlands trusts that England will remain vigilant, and never act upon his horrendously one-sided feelings, and he hasn't, nor has he any intention of ever doing so. 

He really needs to have yet another talk with his ‘best friend’. When they’re on speaking terms again that is. 

His heart can only take so much torture, and it really is cruel how Portugal flirts with him so unreservedly uncaring of the emotional hell he's putting the blond through. He doesn't flirt like that with Netherlands, doesn't caress the man's cheek, or kiss him softly on the eyes. He doesn't hold him gently and play with the hairs on the back of his neck, or invite him to dance to the music only they can hear. Nor does he tell the man “I love you” in a hushed voice as he unsuccessfully tries to steal kisses with a laugh and tender smile. Portugal saves all his ‘love’ for England, so the brunet must really hold a special hatred for the younger blond to keep ‘loving’ him like this. Portugal will never leave Netherlands not by choice. England’s not a fool he knows better than to wish for it, so instead he desperately wishes he can stop loving Portugal, but he’s not sure that’s even possible anymore. Sometimes he wishes he’d fallen in love with Spain instead, at least then he could simply kill the irritating man (he’d have enough excuses to do so given their volatile history), and be done with it to save himself the heartache.

He sighs and continues up the stairs bitter and depressed. Even sleeping Romano is difficult to handle literally in this case as the man fidgets in his hold. He’s lost count of the number of times the dark nation has knee’d him in the side as England struggles with his aching shoulder to piggyback the sleeping nation up to the guest room. France, that tosser had hopped off to find himself a room to spend the night in leaving the younger blond to take care of their unconscious companion. He should have broken more than just the bloody twat’s nose. If he had known how violent Romano is in his sleep the blond would have waited until he’d gotten the fidgety man settled upstairs before giving the brunet his pain medication. Honestly, how do you break an ankle by falling off a wall no higher than your waist? He has his doubts, but if the Italian doesn't feel like telling him the real story as to how he got his injury then he isn't going to press him about it. 

He himself still feels rather stupid about pulling his shoulder simply by tripping over the threshold of his home. He’d caught himself on the post supporting the porch, but his grip had slipped, and he fell down the steps with his arm in a rather unnatural position as he landed in an undignified heap on the driveway. France had laughed his arse off once the initial panic had subsided. England had punched him in the face to shut him up. In his defence he had been plastered. Romano is just presumably clumsy. Not that he isn't, but no one needs to know about that rather inelegant trait. He already has a reputation for being a scatterbrain; the “king of losing things”, as America calls him. He doesn't need people thinking he’s a klutz on top of everything else. If he hears one more joke about him being a ‘senile old man’ that ungrateful brat won't live to see five-hundred.

He wobbles up the last step leaning against the wall for support to take some of the dead weight off his aching shoulder all the while trying to juggle the wriggling Italian, and not accidentally drop him back down the stairs. He trudges on, goal in sight, and socked feet slipslide on the polished wooden floor as he marches forward. He’s almost there, and yet the brunet suddenly feels ten times heavier, and his arms strain not to drop the snoozing half-nation.

He ‘accidentally’ dumps the unconscious body unceremoniously on top of the bed in the nearest room. It’s not the one Romano had chosen judging by the lack of clothing or personal items, but bollocks if he’s going to carry the nation around the entire second floor just to look for it. The brunet is completely out cold, so the blond hardly thinks he’ll mind. He rubs his battered shoulder rolling it a few times to loosen the stiff joint before crossing the room to draw the curtains. The pole rattles as the hoops slide along, but Romano doesn't even flinch. Could nothing wake the Italian? It doesn't seem so as he sleeps on, face relaxed, and breathing shallow. It’s odd, but nice to see him not frowning, and the blond blushes a few seconds later when he realises he’s been standing there like a lemon staring at the sleeping nation. He’ll probably get cold laying on top of the duvet like that, so England attentively searches for a blanket in the wardrobe to cover the Italian with. 

He closes the doors not finding anything, and pulls opens the first of the two large drawers to retrieve what he had been originally looking for before sliding it shut a little too roughly. He marches back over to the bed and drops the fluffy blanket on the snoozing brunet without much care. Irritated at the pain in his arm, and the idea that France is currently running loose somewhere around his house.

Some nations really do have it all: good looks, nice clothes, beautiful architecture, rich culture, good weather, great food...The list goes on. It's a shame they never realise just how blessed they are. He punches the doorframe on his way out before turning back to the sleeping man, hesitating. Bugger all. He treads over to grab the spare pillow from the far side of the bed, and ever so carefully props the brunet’s plastered ankle on top of it. He fixes the blanket, straightening it out, and tucking in the edges, nice and tight. Peridot orbs steals a few more glances at the Italian before he reprimands himself and closes the door. It shuts softly with a gentle ‘click’ as he leaves.

The unmistakable flare of blond is the first thing to catch his eye when he makes it to his own room, even in the dark France's golden locks shine like a beacon. He wants to shave it all off and glue it to the man’s chin. The bloody Frog! Who does he think he is stealing another man’s bed in his own home?! Of all the rooms he could have chosen! The git had done it to simply irk him, it’s obvious. He’s at the end of his tether. He pokes the unconscious lump, but gets no reaction. Now normally, the gentlemanly thing to do would be to carefully wake the older nation sleeping on top of the duvet, and calmly ask for him to find another place to sleep for the night. However, this is France and such gentle considerations would only be wasted on a Frog. 

The rattled Englishman strips down to his t-shirt and boxers throwing the cheap everyday clothes haphazardly onto the back of the chair at the desk, and slips beneath the cover on the unoccupied side of the bed. He grips the soft material tightly in his fingers and bites his lip as he tugs it harshly and wraps it around himself. He holds back a laugh at the loud thump and startled cry that follow. The room goes silent for a moment, footsteps padding across the floor before the door begins to close.

“Bonne nuit, Angleterre.”

“Belt up, Frog.”

“Fais de beaux rêves, mon ange.”

“Yes, goodnight...Now go away...”

There’s a chuckle from by the doorway, and the Englishman smiles into the sheets as the room becomes black. All the thoughts burdening his mind drift away as he slips into the comfortable darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. I'm going to go hide under a rock.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another late chapter! Sorry about that. My life is a little crazy atm. 
> 
> Warnings for this part: Nothing I can think of.

Monday like the previous two days had been physically draining thanks to the unusually warm weather the island nation is experiencing, but the day had passed without too much drama. There wouldn't have been any at all if France hadn't been a dick during breakfast, but thankfully the bearded pervert had decided to leave just before lunch, and he couldn't have been happier to see the bastard go. It had become far too hot for either England or Romano to focus on any nation work, so the Italian spent most of the afternoon comfortably sprawled out on the outdoor sofa hidden away under the shade of the veranda roof lost in his thoughts while England tended to his garden in the blazing midday sun like a moron. Luckily, this time the blond had him there to keep reminding the idiot to stay hydrated, because there’s no way in hell he’s going to care for the bastard if the other nation makes himself sick again.

The temperature in the early hours of the morning had been deceptively cool compared to the afternoon, and the few rays of sun that did manage to break through the heavy grey clouds made little difference. Sure he’d been glad for the drop in temperature at the time, but the threat of even more rain only made him feel miserable. The low rolling fog clinging to the grass combined with the dark sky and cool air had made him think the island nation’s weather had decided to skip the rest of summer that year, and go straight into autumn, but by midmorning the heavy sun was beating down again like the stormy clouds had never even existed. England’s weather is fucking nuts. He’s probably thought that a thousand times by now, and he really shouldn't be surprised, but the sudden changes catch him off guard every damn time. One minute it's cold and foggy the next it’s agonisingly hot and sticky. 

He’d been convinced he'd need to wear something a bit warmer; a jacket and jeans or something when he’d first woken up that morning, but by the time breakfast abruptly ended it was suddenly scorching and humid, but he couldn't be assed to trudge all the way back upstairs to change. His injured foot was swollen and sweaty inside the cast, and by midday the heat had become unbearable, so he'd stripped off his top, and lazed around for the rest of the afternoon waiting for the now clean bed sheets and clothes to dry on the washing line. 

Finding the guest room he’d been using, and then getting the sheet off the bed and down the hall while trying to balance on the crutches had been a fucking chore. He’d thrown the sheets and some of his dirty clothes down the stairs only for them to land in a heap on the landing between the two sets of staircases. He’d felt okay sliding along the wall as he struggled down the smaller set of steps joining the second and third floors, but wasn't so confident about the large central double staircase that lead from the second floor down to the foyer and entryway. There’s no wall to cling to, and the large stained glass window on the landing made the steps look a lot higher than they probably are. 

It had been scary enough when he’d very slowly made his way down for breakfast earlier that morning, but trying to get down while juggling the sheets and clothes was a hundred times worse. He had to sit down to retrieve the laundry from the landing, and wasn't happy about having to stand up again, so he threw the pile down the steps only for it to land halfway down the staircase. He really didn't feel safe going down the stairs on the crutches let alone having to bend down to pick up the pile of sheets and clothes again. He had to slide down on his ass the rest of the way one step at a time while clinging to the spindles of the handrail. Thank God France had already left, and England had been busy outside, because if either man had seen him the Italian would have probably keeled over in embarrassment. 

Ugh. Speaking of France; He still doesn't understand why the bastard even bothered to come over at all if he only intended to stay for the night. It just doesn't seem worth the time to take the long drive to the blond’s country manor from the airport. He remembers the island nation saying something about the Frenchman visiting one of England’s brothers. Scozia? If that’s the case then why bother to even come out here, and not just go straight to wherever he was supposed to be going? The pervert could have gotten a plane straight from Paris to Scotland instead of making such an unnecessary detour. The entire trip seemed pretty pointless.

Two sets of laughter coming from downstairs had been what had roused him from his sleep first thing that morning, so both blond's must have been awake before him. He groggily sat up to grab his phone off the nightstand to check the time only to find it wasn't there. It took a minute to realise this wasn't his bedroom, and he couldn't remember how he’d gotten wherever he was either. Panic set in, but as soon as he heard the muffled sound of England’s unmistakable accent coming from somewhere downstairs he remembered he is currently staying with the blond. After a few more minutes of looking around the room at the outdated floral wallpaper and antique furniture the Italian closed his eyes, wrapped himself back up in the fuzzy blanket, and went right back to sleep.

He’d woken again an hour or so later when the smell of delicious smelling food being cooked convinced him to abandon his ‘nest’ in search of something to appease his grumbling stomach. He had planned on throwing himself in the shower and changing into some fresh clothes before heading to breakfast, but the heavy weight on his leg soon reminded him of his busted ankle, and he settled for just trying to get off the bed instead. He hadn't thought about it until later that evening, but the two blond bastards must have helped him get to the guest room last night, because he doesn't remember anything after struggling to get in England’s car at the hospital.

Breakfast had been served out on the veranda overlooking the main garden where he'd later spent the afternoon keeping an eye on the Englishman as he did his yard work. He’d felt really awkward when he first saw the Brit that morning (still embarrassed about the incident on the sofa), but the blond hadn't seemed worried at all, and had treated the Italian with the same relaxed attitude as usual. England had obviously not done it intentionally, and thankfully didn't seem to even remember doing it. While he waited for France to bring out their food the brunet convinced himself it was just a freaky one-time thing brought on by the blond's fevered state, and decided he should probably just stop thinking about it, and put the bizarre event behind him. 

Easier said than done.

The feel of the blond’s firm body pressed against his was, was - he can't even think of how to describe it, but it was nice, in a weird way. He remembers just how comfortable he was lying there wrapped up in the other’s radiating body heat as England curled around him. Of course that was before he realised he was being fucking molested in his sleep. As scary as that realisation is at the time he felt really relaxed and comfortable, but that was probably because the bastard had been stroking him off, and he’d thought, in his sleep-hazed mind the blond’s hand was his own.

Damn it. 

The radio in the kitchen had been playing one of America’s stupid pop songs quietly in the background, and Romano had been the last to arrive downstairs at gone ten that morning after almost losing the battle to free himself from the fluffy blanket that had somehow gotten wrapped up around him like a cocoon. He knows he moves around a bit (a lot) in his sleep, but he’s never gotten himself so tangled up he could hardly move before. His stupid brother had complained about Romano’s restless sleep-wiggling so many times the younger refused to sleep in the same bed as him during the months before Romano had decided to leave. It’s not like he can do anything about what he does in his sleep, so he told the moron to shut up and get over it, but that time was apparently one time too many, and the usually happy idiot started shouting and smacked his bewildered brother with a pillow before storming out in nothing but his underwear. 

It had been fucking hilarious. He always loves it when Veneziano flips out. The way his cheeks puff up as he does his best not to throw a full blown tantrum is just too funny. It’s during those extremely rare moments when the lighter-haired nation really does lose it, and starts swearing and stomping around the house that they really do seem like brothers. Still, if Veneziano thinks Romano moves around a lot in his sleep then he should try sleeping next to the Tomato-Bastard; the man is like a fucking octopus. A snuggly, overly-affectionate octopus.

The grumpy Italian did eventually manage to untangle himself from the blanket, but even that had been a fucking disaster. He’d needed to use the toilet really badly like he often does after waking up in the morning, but the fucking blanket kept getting snagged up around the cast on his foot every time he tried to slide himself out from under the fuzzy material. The crutches he’d received at the hospital had been leaning innocently against the wall by the bedroom door, and there was no way his already overfilled bladder was going to hold long enough for him to reach the things. The faster option was to slide off the bed and crawl across the floor to the bathroom. It was fucking embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as it would be if he wet himself, but the thought of France or England seeing him crawling on the floor like a toddler was so horrifying he almost decided against it, until he remembered his pressing need to ‘go’. He’d gotten friction burn on his knees from crawling across the rug, and he only just managed to reach the toilet before almost pissing himself, so it had been a pretty bad morning.

By the time he’d hobbled his way down to the kitchen he was beyond irritated. The situation with his busted ankle is becoming a serious pain in the ass, even simple things like using the toilet and trying to have a shower had become a nightmare. He had to try and balance himself on one leg while hanging on to the sink with one hand to steady himself while trying to pee, and it didn't matter what he did or how he moved he couldn't stop the shower spray from splashing down on his cast. He had to settle for resting his leg on the edge of the tub while he soaked in the bath instead. Which honestly had been really relaxing - England owns some really nice bubble baths, and the hot water mixed with the floral scents was really soothing. He still hasn't asked the bastard about them, but he really should because the blond really doesn't seem like the bubble bath type. There’s got to be an interesting story there. Maybe they were left behind from a former lover or ex-girlfriend? He'd thought about it a couple of times over the course of the day whenever he smelt the floral scent waft up from his skin, but he just can't imagine the man actually having a lover. He’s just too...Formal? It was a stupid thought because unless England is some kind of weirdo he must have had at least a few lovers over the years.

France had been busy cooking their food when the Italian had arrived downstairs. England had been sitting at the bistro table on the deck enjoying the cool early morning air, legs crossed, and sipping his steaming mug of hot tea. The older blond greeted the Italian cheerfully, and Romano nodded his head in recognition to the greeting and mumbled a quiet ‘Morning’ in response before turning to look at the blond sat out on the deck. The scene was like something out of a painting, and the brunet found himself wanting to capture the image. It’s rare for him to ever feel inspired to paint these days, no shit, Veneziano is much better than him at that kind of stuff, so he never really bothers to try anymore, but the sight of the Englishman was, was - he didn't want to say beautiful (again), because that sounded really dumb, but that was the only word he could think of to describe the way the blond looked at that moment as the gentle breeze ruffled his already scruffy bedhead, and the soft sun made his pale skin glow. How the blond had gone from lobster red straight back to porcelain white in only a couple of days without so much as a light tan is completely bizarre.

“Il est beau quand il sourit, non?” 

“Shit!” He nearly had a heart attack at the Frenchman's words. He hadn't even noticed the man sneak up behind him, that bastard, but France was right, England did look beautiful (he still couldn't think of a better word) as he sat there porcelain skin perfectly outlined in the dappled light, dusty pink lips curled up into a tiny smile at the little birds flitting about the bird table, and his shining peridot eyes seemed to sparkle as he turned to survey the rest of the grounds with a gentle gaze. Romano wanted to reach out and touch the wheat-gold tassels to see if they really were as soft as they looked. He could see France watching him in amusement through the reflection in the glass veranda doors, and the blue-eyed man took a second to check to see if England was looking, he wasn't, which caused France to sigh, but he reached forward to ruffle the brunet's hair and placed a kiss on his tanned cheek anyway. Fucking bastard trying to cause a scene. He waved the bastard away with a huff, and the blond simply laughed at the feeble ‘attack’ before turning on his heel to return to the stove.

The Frenchman man didn't say anything else just continued grinning like an asshole as he stirred the contents of the frying pan making the oil sizzle and pop. The air was filled with the sounds of synthetic drum beats, cooking, and bird song. A thin layer of fog hung close to the grass as the low morning sun tried to shine down through the clouds into the garden only to be blocked by the tall conifer hedges surrounding the main lawn. The brunet turned away from the blond in the garden for a second when France began singing loudly along to the song on the radio. The fucking crazy thing is the bastard can actually sing quite well, even with a busted noise! Seriously his voice sounded more nasally than usual and totally ridiculous. 

France was grinning from ear to ear as he checked the pans on the stove still singing away. He rolled his eyes at the idiot, and turned his attention back to England who remained completely focused on the garden not seeming at all bothered by the other blond's singing. The Englishman rested his free hand against his cheek knuckles flattened against the pale skin, and his bare elbow propped up on the rough surface of the mosaic table. “Mon cher!” France called as he turned over the greasy contents of the frying pan with the spatula disturbing the man outside. The younger blond turned slightly to casually look at the beaming Frenchman in the kitchen still apparently oblivious to the Italian’s presence in the doorway. “How many pieces of bread would you like, mon ange?” 

“Would you stop it with those stupid nicknames? That aside, I’ll have two, please. Thank you.” The soft smile on the blond’s face had been nothing short of angelic, and Romano was too captivated at the time to really think about just how bizarrely domestic the whole scene between the two ‘enemies’ had been. It was like one of those American ads in the fifties where the wife would dutifully cook the meals, and the husband would wait to be served his food while drinking coffee and reading the morning newspaper before heading off to work. Except it’s France and England, not some newlywed couple, so the fact that the two could actually relax in each other's company just seems fucking weird to him, but apparently there is a lot of shit he doesn't know about his fellow nations. Like England willingly spending his summers over at Spain’s, and France being able to sing. He seriously needs to start attending the meetings just to catch up on all the shit he's apparently missed over the years. Things had obviously changed between them all now, and it’s like he’s still stuck during the wars not trusting anyone (apart from Spain), and keeping himself isolated from the world. He wouldn't be fucking surprised if the other nations really had forgotten about him. 

He’d been so caught up in his mental ramblings he must have been staring at the Englishman outside, because when he finally broke from his thoughts he noticed a pair of very bemused peridot orbs watching him through the opening in the doors. He felt his face heat up, and the blond’s smile widened when their eyes met. “Good morning, Romano.” The sudden words startled him, and he’d acted like a complete moron as he fumbled over his words, struggling to find the right ones to return the blond’s friendly greeting. “How are you feeling this morning?” 

“Y-yeah. H-Hi b-b-.” The ‘bastard’ died on his lips as he turned his eyes away from the blond too embarrassed to look the man in the eye. France unsuccessfully choked back a laugh cerulean eyes sparkling with amusement at the Italian’s awkward behaviour. That asshole, it’s not like he hadn't been embarrassed enough already he didn't need the French-Bastard making it worse by laughing at him. He was so embarrassed it was fucking stupid. He must have looked like one of Spain’s prized tomatoes with how hot his face felt, and the pervert continued to chuckle away at the brunet’s discomfort as he fussed over the food. The French-Bastard pointed towards the open veranda doors with the greasy spatula still smiling like the irritating bastard he is.

“Breakfast is almost done, so go sit down outside with Angleterre, and wait like a good boy until it’s finished, oui?” He threw the man a glare but did as instructed taking his time still not used to wobbling around with the crutches just yet. Fucking France treating him like a kid. He has enough of that kind of treatment from Spain he doesn't need it from that French fucker too. England hadn't seemed too pleased with the comment either, and threw the older blond an irritated frown of his own before turning to smile slightly at the frazzled half-nation. His tea was placed down on the small tabletop, ever so lightly, and the palm that had been resting against his pale cheek fell to join it’s counterpart softly gripping the ceramic mug.

He saw those peridot orbs glanced past him to watch France as he began to serve up their food as Romano hobbled to the table, and the other green-eyed nation rose to pull out the chair for him like a proper gentleman. He still isn't sure how to feel about the gesture because he’s not a fucking woman, but he accepted it anyway reasoning with himself that the man was simply trying to be nice and help the injured nation out. The two back legs scraped across the wooden deck as the blond slid the chair out from under the table, and the brunet took his place opposite the other man still embarrassed and biting his lip, but England hadn't seemed to notice his awkwardness, and he sat back down to continue drinking his tea. 

”How are you feeling this morning, Romano? I hope you slept well?” There was some double-meaning hidden in the blond’s words judging by the twisted half-smile on his face, but he couldn't figure it out, so the brunet simply nodded causing the other man to scoff into his mug. “That’s good to hear. I didn't really sleep very well to be honest with you -” That was also loaded comment, but he had no idea what the Englishman was getting at. “- I suppose it was because I was so sore after hauling you up the stairs to the guest room I simply couldn't sleep. My back is still rather bruised from where you kept kicking me-” He felt his face burst into colour and he wanted to sink through the floor. “- Of course, I'm not blaming you. Had I had some help -” His voice was raised by that point though not aggressively, and the brunet heard something clatter loudly in the kitchen, but England didn't bother to finish his sentence; a wicked smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took another sip from the mug. He's fucking lost with the whole conversation, but the idea that the blond had to carry him to bed made his whole body heat up. Fuck, just the idea of the blond touching him had the Italian fucking warm. 

The gentle angelic atmosphere surrounding the other nation seemed completely out of place with the devilish smirk on his face, but he appeared happy enough as he began chatting with the brunet about various things: the weather, his garden, current events, the usual small talk topics, and he soon forgot about his embarrassment and enjoyed the pointless chatter. He'd even forgotten about the Frenchman in the kitchen until the man eventually appeared with their meals a proud smile shining on his bearded face as he set the plates down on the table. 

“Here you are, fried bread and scrambled eggs for Mon Cher, and fruit crepes and a mug of coffee for Romano. Enjoy!” He seated himself down beside England the peaceful atmosphere turning heavy as the Brit frowned down at the plate before him.

“What’s the matter, cher?” The younger blond simply huffed saying it was nothing (there was no way in hell France believed him. It was totally obvious the Englishman was lying), and shoved his fork into the steaming pile of eggs. The tension rose, and he sat in silence not knowing what to expect. The food looked and smelt really good (as good as shitty French-made food could), and he couldn't understand why the younger blond seemed so dissatisfied with his meal. Not until he saw those frowning peridot orbs glance down at the crepes on his own plate. 

Stab. Stab. Stab. 

“Angleterre.”

“What?” 

France sighed saying nothing, and England continued to silently pulverise the eggs with the fork. He honestly felt sorry for France. The bastard had gone out of his way to cook for the two younger nations only for England to sulk like a brat, and turn his nose up at the food. The only reason England had been given eggs instead of crepes, France explained (somehow knowing why the Englishman was sulking), was because the younger blond had gotten himself totally wasted yesterday, and the older European didn't want to risk upsetting the Brit’s stomach. England had seemed to be completely sober by the time the three of them left the hospital, and he knows just how much the island nation likes sweet foods, especially summer fruits, so feeling sorry for the sulking nation the Italian ended up sneaking the blond half a crepe while France disappeared inside to get a fresh mug of coffee. The beaming grin on the Tea-Bastard’s face as he placed the fried batter onto his side plate and slid it over to the other nation gave him butterflies, and he felt himself start to fucking blush as the blond happily munched on a strawberry lapping up the pink juice on his lip before it could trickle down his chin. He couldn't take his eyes off the man - totally captivated, until France’s return brought him back to reality.

The rest of the meal passed in surprising peace, and the three nations spoke merrily about a wide range of different topics including America’s shit but catchy pop music, and England’s latest failed bout with the summer sun, though the brunet had been extremely careful to exclude any unnecessary details as he retold the story to a bemused France. England had rolled his eyes and tossed a sugar cube at the Italian's chest in an attempt to shut him up. The little cube rolled down the brunet’s top onto his lap, and he casually pinged it back across the table at the blond making the green-eyed nation roll his eyes again.

The playful atmosphere changed when the island nation later excused himself to the bathroom. Romano found himself unsure of what to do as he sat on the receiving end of a particularly devilish grin from the older blond, and France swallowed his mouthful of toast before speaking. “I’m surprised at you, cher. -” he began, his mischievous gaze never faltering, and the brunet felt trapped in his seat under the intense stare. “- Flirting like that with Mon Cheri. I had no idea.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, you bastard?” 

The blond’s eyes widened briefly before returning to gleam evilly at him. The Italian answered back with a glare crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn't going to be intimidated by France of all nations, especially when he had no idea what the fucker was talking about. “What I mean, cher-” the blond practically sang the word. “-Is that I’m sure your dear Spain, would be crushed to hear how our dashing former pirate has so easily stolen your heart, non?”

“Bastard, what the fuck?!” The older man was clearly enjoying himself, and the brunet wanted to punch him just to wipe that irritating smirk off the bastard's face. The blond continued to smile as Romano continued to glare heavy guitar riffs from the kitchen leaking into the silence and adding to the tension.

“Really, Romano if you want to ‘get into Mon Cher’s pants’ as Amérique would say then you will have to be far more obvious. Angleterre is rather dense when it comes to matters of the heart. He won't realise you're flirting with him if you are too subtle about it.” Oh God. He’d completely forgotten about that. His face burst into colour. It had to of done with how fucking hot his cheeks felt. Why the hell did the bastard have to say that? Jesus. The lecherous leer the blond gave him only made the Italian’s embarrassment worse. He’d gotten an upclose view of the Tea-Bastard’s ‘lower regions’ yesterday, but with all the drama he’d forgotten about it. Fucking France. Thanks to that stupid fucking comment he was reminded of it all over again. Fuck...

“What’s the matter, petite? You’re looking a little red in the face.” 

“J-just shut up, seriously, just shut the fuck up, Bastard.” 

He missed half of whatever the Frenchman had been saying desperately trying not to think about the Englishman's ‘lower regions’. He hadn't even realised he’d been holding his breath until he felt his chest grow tight. “- Oh, Romano! C’est magnifique! Big brother is so moved I might cry! Angleterre gets so very lonely you know! He will-.” He threw the empty mug of coffee at the blond trying to get the bastard to shut up, but the asshole dodged it easily, and the ceramic cup vanished through the gap in the wooden railings falling silently somewhere onto the grass lawn. His face was on fire, and he had no way of escaping, at least not easily, because of the cast around his foot.

“...That's not- I wasn't- I - I-No! Fuck, no! I Damn it! What the fuck?!” 

France's grin didn't waver. The bastard is an asshole not that that’s anything new. He’s known that for centuries. The blond took another slice of toast from the rack and began to spread it with butter still smiling while the tanned nation bit his lip, and speared a chunk of melon with his fork repeatedly until it was so full of holes there was nothing left but mush.

“You bastard! Fuck you!” The Frenchman simply laughed at the agitated swears, and he had been so embarrassed he wanted to cry. He caught sight of a pigeon landing on the giant hedge that separated the main and side lawns from the corner of his eye, and wondered just how much longer England was going to be, because he couldn't deal with the Pervert-Bastard anymore. “I’m not interested in him! No way in hell!” The statement was more to convince himself than the smiling blond, but France didn't seem to care either way as he hummed in his throat, and munched the toasted bread. His own words plagued the brunet’s thoughts, and wouldn't stop tormenting him, and despite knowing better than to give the French fucker any more reason to tease him he had to say it again just to really convince himself. “...There's no-nothing attractive about that bastard...at all.” The words tailed off into barely a whisper as his cheeks flushed again for what seemed like the thousandth time that morning. 

“Oh, mon cher, you are just too cute!” The blond reached across to pet his head, and he’d risen out of his seat balancing on his good leg to tightly grab the soft material of the blond’s t-shirt in his fist. He knocked the little table with his thigh as he stood causing the cups to wobble precariously. The brunet readied himself to slug the infuriating bastard, but a sudden pressure on his shoulders pushed him back down, and he instantly released his hold on France’s top as he fell back into his chair. The unmistakable feeling of fingers squeezed his shoulder gently before letting go completely.

“That’s enough. I'm not sure what you did to rile him up, Frog, but Romano’s clearly had enough of your rubbish.” He was too terrified to turn around, and that fucker France just kept smiling, even when England smacked the other blond around the head as the green-eyed nation walked past to retake his seat at the table. He couldn't look at either man just sat silently staring face down into his lap trying to hide his red face. The perfectly golden fried batter had become cold and remained untouched on the plate in front of him. He flinched as the Englishman sat down, and anxiously bit his lip.

“You are such a killjoy, Sourcils! Romano and I were simply having a nice little chat.”

“Shut the fuck up, Bastard!!” He threw his fists down on the table so hard he tipped it over sending the actual table and the last remnants of their breakfast crashing to the wooden deck below. The loud smash of breaking ceramic startled all three of them, and three sets of eyes could only stare in disbelief at the carnage on the floor as they tried to wrap their minds around what just happened. “Holy shit…”

“My shirt!” The Frenchman shouted obviously angered at the dark lukewarm coffee stain spreading over his now ruined top. The Italian had been too shocked to feel embarrassed or sorry, but France's angry tone had startled him more than he'd like to admit. “Angleterre look at this! My poor top is ruined-” England’s acidic voice cut the other nation off before he could continue. 

“That’s enough. You brought it on yourself. Nothing for it. Now make yourself useful and help me clean up this mess.” The irritated words did nothing to calm the other blond, and the Englishman slipped off his chair to squat down on the wooden veranda to inspect the shattered fragments and ruined food. 

“Non! Mon Cher you cannot possibly expect me-”

“France! You're forgetting that Romano is injured. You can't possibly expect him to do it. Now shift your hairy arse.” The man's tone was warning enough to make the older blond huff dramatically, he shut up, and turned away to sulk like a scolded child, but still refused to help the other blond pick up the fallen table or clean up any of the mess. Romano could only stare at the Englishman in amazement. He’d never heard someone be so commanding while still sounding so calm before. It was terrifying and amazing. 

England is terrifying, or at least he'd thought so at the time. He isn't so sure now as he lays on his stomach on the living room floor recalling the day's events while watching the green-eyed man stare at the playing cards in his hand like they had somehow offended him. 

The blond had been very kind to him the entire day after the table accident. He’d even started laughing as he squatted down on the deck to pick up the pieces of shattered plates. He thought the blond would be furious since not only had the plates and mugs been destroyed, but the decking had been damaged too. He's pretty sure those coffee stains are never going to come out, and had it been Romano’s veranda that had been ruined he would have gone mad. England on the other hand had found the whole thing incredibly funny after the initial shock had worn off, and said nothing more about it, but France had not been so understanding.

The Frenchman had in fact made England clear the entire mess himself as the brunet sat in his chair uselessly unable to help. Every attempt the younger blond made to get France to help him had been swiftly refused and met with an over-dramatic huff. He could tell by the way the Englishman's face had reddened that the blond had reached the limit of his patience with the other nation. After he very ‘calmly’ asked France to pass him the dustpan and brush only to be ignored England had finally lost it, and bellowed at the other blond to “Get the bloody hell out if you are going to behave like a spoiled brat” as he stormed into the house to retrieve the pan and brush himself. That hadn't gone down to well with the bearded European, and the brunet sat rooted to his seat wishing he could just disappear.

“Fine! I'll be going then since someone is being an uncivil boor!” England feigned ignorance as the cerulean blue orbs glowered at him. Romano watched on in silence as France continued to glare obviously unimpressed by the younger blond's cold attitude. The pale green-eyed nation simply ignored him and continued to sweep up the pile of shattered fragments with the little brush.

“I'm sure you can see yourself out.” The insulted look on the older blond’s face was priceless, and Romano found himself half-smirking at the blue-eyed man. The Englishman’s uncaring words sent the Frenchman into a dramatic tantrum, and the Italian suddenly found himself unwillingly dragged into the middle of their petty argument as France began pleading at him.

“Romano! Isn't he cruel?! Angleterre is always so mean to Big Brother!”

“So? What do you expect me to do about it, fucker?” The victorious look in those peridot eyes as England looked up to grin at him made the Italian blush, and he quickly reached up a tanned hand to hide his coloured cheeks and the small smile spreading across his lips before the Frenchman could notice. France was thankfully too busy glaring at the Englishman next to him to take any interest in the blushing brunet. 

It’s seriously fucking stupid how a single look like that from England makes the Italian’s face heat up. There’s really no way he’s interested in the blond…None, damn it. He has hideous eyebrows, no fucking fashion sense, and would it kill the blond to actually try and tame his perpetual bedhead a bit? The pale nation has a nice face, and a nice build (if not a little on the scrawny side). If he actually put some effort into managing his appearance he’s sure the island nation could be quite attractive. Damn it, the man’s clothing choices really are...tragic, Veneziano had been right about that.

The Frenchman haughtily rose from his seat throwing both him and England a frown as he did, but he was too flustered to really care about France as he snuck glances at the green-eyed blond on the floor.

“Fine then! Big Brother will leave you two cruel, heartless, little demons alone! Au revoir, Angleterre, Romano.”

“Good riddance.” 

“Get lost, Bastard.” 

Their simultaneous replies caused the two green-eyed nations to stare at each other, their eyes locked, and the blond was the first to turn away as the blush on Romano’s own cheeks darkened. France started chuckling at them from by the veranda doors having noticed the awkward silence, and England grabbed a piece of cold toast and lobbed it at the older blond to shut him up successfully hitting the man square in the side of the face. Served him right, the bastard. France’s obnoxious laughter faded into silence as he waved then disappeared into the house finally leaving the two blushing nations alone in the garden. Neither knew what to say as the awkward silence descended on them again, and he felt completely exposed as he sat there on the chair unable to escape.

The Englishman's unmistakable laugh filled the air stunning the overwhelmed brunet even more. “That was fucking brilliant.” He took a breath trying to calm himself, but only laughed harder. “I can't believe it!” The piece of shattered cup in his hand was carelessly dropped back onto the wooden deck as the blond reached up to cover his face trying to stifle the laughs. “The bloody table! -” The poor bastard could hardly breathe. “My god, Romano! France’s face!!” 

After that everything kind of returned to normal. England eventually calmed down, and Romano stopped feeling like such an idiot as the Englishman reassured him for the twentieth time that he wasn't at all worried about the broken plates or damaged decking, so the Italian shouldn't be either. He really does have a lot of worries though just not about the decking. He’d been plagued by thoughts of the blond all day. Thoughts of his pale sweat soaked body mostly as the man moved about the garden under the scorching sun, but he'd also wondered what it would be like if the two of them did...Get together or something, but the idea was just too ridiculously insane that he couldn't think about it seriously. 

He tried to reason with himself that he’s just pent up or something, because he’s been fantasising about the blond all fucking day despite not being sure if he’s interested in the Englishman romantically or not. The more he thought about it he kind of realised he doesn't find the idea of getting closer to the blond as repulsive as he thought he would. He kind of enjoys spending time with the Brit. Of course he’s only been staying with the other nation for a few days, and it's too soon to decide if he trusts the blond let alone likes the man or not, but that doesn't stop his stupid brain from imagining.

He’d come to this insane realisation by ‘tea-time’ (3PM-ish) that afternoon as England sat down on the armchair by the exterior sofa Romano had been lazing around on to get a drink and a snack. It hadn't been anything mind blowing, or a sudden kind of revelation. He’d just thought the blond looked really serene? Calm? Tranquil? Whatever the word is. England had looked really happy with himself as he assessed the results of his work (admittedly the garden does look amazing), and Romano’s heart sped up a bit as he looked at the proud look on the bastard’s face. He really likes that expression, a-a lot, and the way the blond had laughed so unreservedly and carefree as he cleared up the mess from breakfast gives the Italian butterflies every time he remembers it. Fuck, his face is on fire just thinking about it.

He’s not sure how this has happened, because he’d never consider scruffy-haired, bushy-brow’d Englishman as his type, but he’s definitely somehow interested in the blond. He hardly knows anything about the other man, so it has to be some kind of stupid natural attraction or something that has him so fucking flustered every time the other nation just looks at him. He’s not sure if he wants to try and act on this new discovery or not. The realisation that he does possibly, kind of have...a thing (not a fucking crush, damn it) for the island nation had only made trying to keep his thoughts out of the proverbial gutter that much more difficult.

France had fucking started it with his comment, but as England toiled under the merciless glare of the heavy afternoon sun his white top became more and more transparent, and Romano had to calm himself down one or two times as his fantasising became more and more fevered. Part of him had been silently begging the man to just remove his top so the brunet could stare at those glistening muscles, but there was also something so extremely sexy about the way the soaked material stuck to England's pale body like a second skin that had almost driven the brunet mad with lust. He then spent a good while trying to ignore the heat building under his skin, and distracted himself by thinking about how messed up this sudden attraction he has for the other nation is. 

He has to keep reminding himself that they don't even know each other, and up until a few days ago he'd considered the other nation to be a terrifying, foul-tempered asshole with shit food and horrible weather, and while the last two are completely true he’s coming to realise the first two statements possibly aren't. Yeah, England can be fucking scary; his rant at France earlier was proof enough of that, but he can also be really kind and considerate like how he always seems to be around the Italian. The blond can be crude, but tries his best to appear ‘gentlemanly’, and despite being seemingly collected and mature he sulks like a brat when he doesn't like something. He has a reputation for being a miserable dick, but smiles quit a lot and has a sense of humour, and he still tries to cook even though he’s obviously shit at it. Yet despite his clear lack of culinary skill the blond keeps trying, even though many of the other nations continuously mock him for it.

By the time evening had rolled round England had finished his gardening, and washed up for dinner (a makeshift caprese salad and sliced chicken breast), and the Italian had decided he’s going to learn everything there is to know about the island nation: from his people's history to the man's favourite colour. He wants to get to know the other nation better, because he’s never been so interested in another nation before. England has so many different sides to him, and the Italian can't help but want to uncover them all. He wants to know who the real England is underneath the gentlemanly facade (if it is a facade). Most of the nations he knows openly express their emotions, so it’s easy to tell what they’re feeling, but England...The Italian doesn't know what’s real and what isn't. The seemingly relaxed blond he’s been staying with seems like a completely different man to the one he’s heard so many rumours and stories about. 

It wasn't until the two exhausted men had settled onto the cool livingroom floor in front of the fan to relax for the evening that the brunet really realised just how seriously he had been considering all of this. It’s alarming, but also insanely exciting, and his mind slipped back into the gutter again at the sight of the blond’s chest shimmering with sweat under the soft lamplight as the blond unbuttoned his shirt to cool down, He felt really anxious as he tried not to stare. He’s definitely attracted to the blond sexually. He’s not sure why, because the Tea-Bastard really isn't his type or even his preferred sex, but he can't deny how easily aroused he is by the bastard now. 

It’s like the incident on Sunday morning had flipped a switch, and the Italian has no idea how to turn it back off. He doesn't have much experience with male lovers. He’s only ever had a couple, and it had never been anything serious just drunken one-night flings. He'd never had a real relationship with any of them. In fact, he doesn't really remember anything about any of them apart from one; a handsome young ex-soldier. Romano hadn't intended to sleep with the man when he ran into him in the little bar on the corner street, but it just sort of happened, and he’d been really disappointed as he watched the man leave the next morning. He’s never really had an actual relationship now that he thinks about it. He’s had more lovers and girlfriends than he can remember, but for whatever reason things just never seem to last long or go very far. It’s probably a blessing in disguise, because the differences in lifespan and responsibilities would probably make even the most devoted relationship between a regular human and nation difficult in the long run, but it’s still a depressing thought.

It isn't just his lack of experience with male lovers or long-term relationships that’s worrying him though. It’s the fact that this sudden interest toward the blond Englishman has just come from nowhere. It doesn't make any sense, but he can't deny (as much as he wants to) just how attracted he really is to the bastard. He’d been thinking about it all day, and he just can't make sense of it. The blond really isn't what the Italian would call attractive. His eyebrows are monstrous for a start, and his clothing choices don't do him any favours either (admittedly the tight-fitting top and jeans he’d worn on Saturday hadn't been too bad. The clothes were plain but the snug fit flattered the blond's lean muscles rather nicely). He’s tempted to mentally chastise the Brit for his perpetual scruffy bedhead too, but it actually kind of suits the bastard. 

He glances at the blond across from him, but he’s thankfully oblivious to the half-nation's inner thoughts as he continues to glare at the brunet. The cool wood of the floor is bliss against the exposed skin of his stomach where his top has ridden up, and he absentmindedly watches the Englishman with amusement as the blond glowers down at the playing cards in his hands. The irritated nation reaches for the glass of water on the end table and takes a sip briefly breaking his gaze from the Italian opposite him. If the bastard could be bothered he’d probably have killed the brunet a hundred times over by now with the way he’s been glaring at him with those angry peridot eyes, but it’s so fucking humid both of them are too exhausted to move. 

The man continues to drink, and Romano watches the way the blond’s throat moves as he swallows the water. The movements sends a couple of beads of sweat rolling down the exposed skin of England’s neck and hungry olive green eyes watch in lewd fascination as the little drops slide down the ridge of the man’s collarbone and disappear. The Englishman’s sharp voice snaps at him to stop ‘daydreaming’ and the loud words nearly give him a heart attack. He feigns ignorance, pretending he’d simply zoned out, and wasn't checking the other nation out like he has been all afternoon. Luckily England hadn't noticed, and crosses his arms over his chest with a huff as Romano reaches for another card from the deck between them. The blond’s sharp teeth sink into his bottom lip as the brunet flips the card over and examines it. 

“Queen of Hearts.”

“What was the trump again?” He places the card on the floor and grins at the man glaring daggers at him. 

“Clubs, Bastard. We've only been playing this game for the last hour. Try to keep up.” There's a growl, and a five of diamonds is thrown down on top of Romano’s card, and the brunet chokes back a laugh as he scoops up the cards placing them next to the other three stacks in front of him. 

“You're a fucking cheater.” He can't force back the laugh this time as he shifts trying to get comfortable smirking at the blond's foul temper. The Brit is still glaring and looking like he's ready to pounce and throttle the brunet, and it's honestly hilarious watching the usually calm, collected man throw a tantrum like a child. He never imaged England to be such a sore loser, especially over something stupid like a game of cards, but he's learned by now that England’s a very complex man who has many different sides to him, and Romano wants to discover them all, because for whatever fucking reason he finds the man completely fascinating, and s-sexy. Fuck. He could have gone his whole life without admitting that to himself, but he honestly can't deny it anymore, even though he still doesn't understand what it is about the blond that he apparently likes so much.

He tries to focus on the game to stop himself from getting distracted, and sends the agitated man a smug look. “The fuck? How the hell can you cheat at Trumps? You just suck, Bastard. Take a card already.” It probably isn't a good idea to taunt the man, but he can't help it. England’s face is puffed up, and that murderous glare is so funny he doesn't care if the bastard does try to strangle him. The ruffling of fabric draws his attention back to England as he slips off his shirt dumping it down on the the floor beside him his now bare back sticking to the leather of the sofa. “Try to at least win one hand, Bastard. It's no fun if you keep losing.” 

“Would you shut it? I still don't understand how you’re even winning!” 

The venom in his tone has softened a bit, but the blond is still obviously angry. Maybe he should let him win a round or two just so he can draw the game out longer. He doubts he could convince the angered Englishman to play another game after this, so he wants to enjoy it while he can. It did look a little suspicious that the brunet hadn't lost a single hand since their game had started though, but it isn't his fault if the bastard has a shitty memory. He probably wouldn't even have to cheat to beat him with how badly the blond has been playing, but Trumps is a game of luck more than skill. The poor bastard doesn't seem to have either. At this rate he could probably even beat the Englishman at some stupid kiddy game like Go Fish or Pairs. Pfft. 

“Because you were totally convinced you were going to win? It's not my fault you suck so badly at cards.”

“You didn't even know how to this ridiculous game up until an hour ago. I still say you're cheating somehow. Just pick your blasted card already.”

“It’s your turn.” 

“Oh.” The look of disbelief on the island nations face is too much for him, and he can't stop the laughter pouring out from his chest. The glare returns as the blond picks his card, and the disbelief transfers from the blond to him when the card is placed down. “Ace of clubs.” He can't beat it, so he throws down his lowest club, a three. Well, shit.

“Holy shit, Bastard! You actually won a round. Congratulations!” The blond rolls his eyes at the sarcasm, but throws the Italian a victorious smirk taking another sip from his glass. He can't remember the last time he had so much fun just playing cards. Playing a game like this just for fun is something he hasn't done in a really long time. His brother is never interested in spending time with him these days (not that he ever was before), and especially not in playing cards. He's always too busy with the Potato-Bastard or Japan, or France. Card games with Spain often mean France and/or the Albino-Potato would also be visiting along with his former boss, and alcohol is always consumed in stupid amounts when all three of those idiots are together. Those nights are thankfully rare, but always end up with either drunken dares or betting for money, or both. Which never ends well, for anyone, but especially for Romano who’d be stuck clearing up the mess by himself, because the three morons would be too hungover the next day. 

Admittedly England had been a little tipsy when he agreed to play, so it’s no wonder the blond is losing so badly, but it had been his own choice to have that fourth beer. Romano hadn't wanted any. Like he’d ever drink that disgusting watered down Germanic piss water. He couldn't even enjoy the evening with a nice relaxing glass of wine thanks to the blond’s drunken rampage yesterday, and they ran out of lemonade during the afternoon, but he’d still chose water over shitty German beer any day...Damn it, that had been such a good vintage...England hadn't seemed particularly bothered by the fact that he was losing until he sobered up, and the realisation that he probably couldn't catch up made the blond’s mood turn sour pretty quickly. 

"Haven't fallen asleep have you?" He looks up at the blond who is looking at him curiously, and nods his head a bit. "You've been staring off into space on and off all evening. Are you getting tired? We can call it a night if you want to head to bed."

"You're just saying that because you're losing, Bastard. I'm a little tired, but fine. I can keep beating your ass at cards all night. I was just thinking about shit." The blond continues looking at him expecting a little more of an explanation than the one the brunet had given him. Nosy fucker. "I...I haven't done stuff like this in a long time. You know, just relaxing and playing cards and stuff just for fun." England offers him a small smile and wiggles against the sofa laying one of his legs down on the floor.

"I haven't played cards in quite a while either, so I know what you mean." The smile the blond gives him turns him to mush on the inside, and he returns it with a little smile of his own before the room grows quiet, even the rambling of the TV has stopped now the programs on the current channel have ended for the night. England yawns making him yawn too. "I really am getting tired though. Do you mind if we call it a night, or do you want to finish up the game?" He can tell the tired nation is just trying to be polite by offering him the choice, and he's gotten used to the blond enough to know he's actually desperately begging the brunet to agree to end the game then and there. The Englishman’s overly polite personality will probably be the end of him one day. Veneziano had said something similar about Japan once. Maybe it’s some weird trait all island nations share. "Romano?"

"Yeah, sorry. That's fine." He sweeps up the cards in front of him to prove his point, and England does the same placing the little cardboard pieces onto the main deck in front of them. Romano passes over his own stack of cards so the other nation can add them to the pile. The completed stack is placed back in the box, and he struggles to stand as England puts the playing cards on the end table, stretching his arms behind his head and flexing his muscles as he stands, okay so maybe he's not as tired as he thought, because that innocent movement has the brunet feeling rather warm all over again. Damn it, the bastard really is toned...Fuck!

"Do you need any help getting up the stairs? You look pretty shattered." He hadn't really thought about that. He's too tired to think about what 'shattered' is supposed to mean, but it's probably pretty obvious given they'd been talking about how they’re both tired. He really doesn't want to have to go back up the stairs, because at some point he’ll have to come back down again. He doesn't want to have to rely on England any more than he has to either, but there’s no way he feels okay about trying to struggle up the steps on his own at the moment. Reluctantly he agrees to let the blond help him.

England grabs his discarded shirt from the floor and tells the brunet to wait for him out in the entrance hall while he locks up. The blond turns off all the lights and the fan, and then closes and locks all the doors on the lower floor while the Italian tries not to freak out over the thought of the English nation carrying him up the stairs like a bride. Damn it, that’s just too fucking embarrassing. There’s no way he’d be able to stop himself from blushing. He already fucking is, damn it. Shit.

Clinging to the handrail like a frightened child he can't help but grip the blond’s forearm tighter as he uses it to pull himself up on the next step. This is definitely less embarrassing than the thought of the Tea-Bastard carrying him, but it’s taking forever to get up the stairs, and it’s difficult to control his fucking emotions as he tries not to get distracted by how close the two nations are. England is definitely stronger than his scrawny physique would suggest he can feel the island nation’s strength in the firm hand that’s supporting the Italian’s back to stop him from falling down backwards, and in the way the blond helps lift him up the steps with his other arm as the brunet pushes down on it for leverage. As nice as it is to be so close to the Englishman there’s no chance he’s doing this every freaking time he wants to go between floors. It’s taking too long, even if the blond doesn't seem to mind.

They’re only just at the little landing between the two sets of staircases when the Brit’s phone goes off startling both nations.

 _Entendez-vous dans les campagnes_  
_Mugir ces féroces soldats -_

“Bloody tosser. What does he want now…Are you alright to wait here for a second while I answer this?”

“Yeah.” It would give him a second to catch his breath before trying to tackle the second set of steps. He’s not sure how the blond is planning on helping him up them, because the staircase is too narrow for them to stand side by side. England leans on the handrail phone pressed up to his ear while he makes himself comfortable against the wall beside the window. He wants to sit down and rest, but then he’d have to get back up again when the blond is finished. Damn it, was having a fracture always this draining? He’s had countless broken limbs or busted joints over the years, and doesn't remember ever having this much trouble in the past. 

“-You’re sure?...No, I haven't got a clue. That bloody arse never tells me anything…Have you tried calling him?...Don't go off at me, Frog! Bloody hell!...Can you book a hotel?...No, absolutely not!...Well, figure something out then. I have enough work to do as it is I don't have time to babysit you on top of everything else...No! Blast it!...Listen here you stubborn arse, I said no and I bloody well mean it!...For fuck’s sake then why not just book a room for the night and then go home?...That’s hardly my problem…No hold on a minu-France! France!!...God damn it you bloody wanker don't you dar- YOU FUCKING TOSSER!!” There’s a long pause as England grips the handrail in aggravation cursing under his breath as the line goes dead. Whatever the French bastard had said seriously angered the island nation.

“E-Everything okay, Bastard?” 

“...Yes. Sorry about that. Nothing to worry about. Just France being a pillock as usual.” Right...Somehow he doesn't believe that, well apart from the part about France being ‘a pillock’ he knows that all too well. The irritated nation huffs before pocketing his phone, and making his way over to the Italian by the wall. “Ready to go?” He nods and bites back a groan as he looks up at the second set of stairs.

It takes just over twenty minutes or so for him to finally climb the last step of the staircase and collapse onto the sofa at the top of the landing. He really doesn't know how he would have done it without the blond there to support him. He’d managed to reach the seventh step pretty much on his own, but was too exhausted to go any further. He’d just wanted to give up, but the Englishman had encouraged him the entire way gently pushing the worn out Italian to keep going, literally. He’d lost his balance a couple of times and instinctively braced himself to fall only for the blond’s strong hand to lightly push him forward again. Eventually he’d managed to slide his way up the wall using the railing to pull himself while England pushed him up from behind. 

The blond had gone to retrieve the crutches from down in the entryway while the brunet did his best not to fall asleep on the little two-seater in the hall upstairs. Romano was almost completely asleep when a chuckle brought him back to reality again. Finding the guest room hadn't been too difficult, but trying to convince the Tea-Bastard he was fine to head there on his own hadn't been so easy, but the blond did finally give up, and said goodnight before going to his own room. 

He feels completely exhausted as he lays on top of the soft cotton cover. He can't drift off to sleep though despite how tired he is. So many things had happened that day. He can't stop going over what happened at breakfast. How England had laughed so unreservedly, and the look of horror on France’s face when the younger blond had yelled at him to leave. Dinner had been nice too. The Brit had suggested they eat outside in the garden, but then burst out laughing again as soon as the words left his lips. He’d been a little embarrassed that the blond still finds the table flipping incident so funny, but hearing the other nation laugh like that made up for it. 

What he can't make sense of is how in only four days he’s gone from being scared shitless of the blond to wanting to try and befriend the man with the possible intention of someday maybe going a bit further. How the hell does something like that even happen? Wanting to befriend the blond isn't that weird really. He enjoys himself around the other nation most of the time, so it’s kind of normal for him to want to get to know the man better. This...sexual attraction he has makes no sense at all though. The Tea-Bastard had pretty much molested him, and somehow he’d gotten excited by it while being completely terrified. He’s never had that kind of reaction to any other nation trying to feel him up before. Fuck knows France has tried more than once, the Albino-Potato too, and he always felt disgusted and fought the two bastards off, but it’s suddenly okay if England tries it?...Seriously what the hell? 

Mentally making a list hadn't helped either, because for every thing that he finds a little bit attractive about the other nation (like the blond’s smile, and his eyes) he has another that he really doesn't like, the bastard’s eyebrows for one, his lack of fashion sense, his sarcasm...Actually he had to put that one in a neutral category, because sometime he finds the blond’s snark really sexy, and then sometimes it’s just fucking annoying. In the end his list didn't clear anything up, and he ended up tiring himself out just trying to make sense of all the weird events that had happened to him since staying with the Englishman. 

Grabbing the duvet he snuggles down into the soft material, and yawns finally starting to drift off. He made sure he locked the door earlier before settling down. He might be attracted to the younger man, but he’s not about to give the bastard any opportunities to possibly try and molest him again. The fucking insane part is he’s not sure he’d even want to try and fight the blond off if he did try something, and that had the Italian more freaked out than the idea of England actually trying to do anything.

Damn it. Burying his face into the pillow the frazzled brunet tries to force himself to sleep just to stop his mind from thinking about the blond down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back on track with the updates (hopefully).
> 
> Warnings for this part: None really, but given the nature of the story I'm setting it as NSFW.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

He really does hate the rain in England. It makes him depressed and long for home. During the early hours of the morning heavy torrential rainfall had started falling from the endless cloudy sky. England's gardens that only yesterday had been full of life and spectacular shows of colour were now cast in darkness, and he can't do anything but watch from the safety of the tightly latched veranda doors in the kitchen as the heavy rains batter the rose bushes and destroy the fragile blossoms. It’s a cruel, murderous rain. Even under the blistering scorch of the summer sun England’s precious flowers had bloomed brightly filling the garden with colour and sweet scents, and in a matter of seconds they were gone swallowed up in the grey haze as the battered petals lay scattered on the earth. 

The somber look on England’s face that morning as they ate breakfast in mournful silence stabbed the brunet right in the heart. The blond had spent all day on that garden only for his hard work to be washed away in a matter of moments. There was something oddly poetic about it. He’s not sure why exactly, but the untimely demise of the once vibrant flowers had the Italian feeling pensive. The blossoms themselves may be gone, but the rain would be good for the bushes the island nation had said as he looked out into the gloom with despondent eyes. The once shining peridots dull and void of emotion just like the dismal weather outside. 

A threatening roar of thunder echoes in the distance as he watches the water cascade over the rim of the wooden bird table scattering the seed onto the muddy lawn below. There’s not a single bird in sight. The memories of yesterday morning seems like some kind of dream. The gentle serenity that surrounded England as he watched the birds flit around from his seat on the veranda with that small smile on his lips seems so distant now as he watches the man eat his toast in silence. It’s soul crushing. Really. He can't even consol the man. He doesn't know what to say, or if there’s anything he can do to cheer the blond man up in any way. If there is he wants to do it, because he can't stand to see the Englishman so disheartened. Not after seeing the other nation laughing so wholeheartedly only yesterday. 

England says very little during the rest of the meal. Both nations sit in heavy silence watching the rain pour outside. Out the corner of his eye the Italian spotted something moving slowly outside the glass bay window. Confused as to what would kind of creature would be out there in such a downpour he pushed back the lace curtain to get a better look at whatever was moving outside. The movement must has caught the blond’s attention, because the man snapped out of his thoughts to softly ask the other nation what he was looking at. He doesn't know what the word is in English, so he just points to the window at the chiocciola sliding it's way up the glass. England pulls back the curtain from his side of the window casually glancing over to where the Italian is pointing.

“What do you call this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Bastard, what do YOU mean? What’s it called?”

“You can't be serious? Surely you have snails in Italy?” Snails. Ugh. That sound disgusting. He rolls his eyes at the other nation. 

“Of course we do, Bastard. What did you think I was talking about?” A look of sudden understanding dawns on the Brit’s face, and he casts his eyes over at the little creature again.

“Sorry. I didn't fully understand what you meant for a minute there. It so-Bloody hell! There’s another one! Little buggers are out in force today.” He can't help be feel a little relieved as the blond gwarks at the window in disbelief at the two ‘snails’. At least the other man is talking again now. 

It’s obvious the pale man isn't happy by the sight, and the Italian flips between watching the messy patterns appear on the glass as the two creatures slide their way over it, and glancing over at the nation opposite him carefully observing his expressions. Quiet envelops the kitchen again, but it’s comfortable. He’s not sure what to say, but at least it’s better than the depressing atmosphere from earlier. 

“I bet you five euros that this one will reach the top first.” England splutters and scoffs. He’s not sure what the hell possessed him to say it, but he can't help but issue the blond the challenge. It’s not really a challenge just a stupid game for bored children. He’s seriously not sure what the hell possessed him to say it. It sounded fucking stupid and immature, but England smiles for what seems like the first time in millennia, and the Italian’s heart fucking skips a beat as his face heats up. Damn it.

“Alright. I'll take that bet.” The hell? Seriously? Sure enough there’s a cocky smirk on the blond’s lips, and his peridot orbs are shining in the dim light. 

“You better not cry when you lose, Bastard.”

“Speak for yourself.” England watches the ‘snails’ silently urging his to catch up. It was a completely unfair bet since Romano’s had started the race far closer to the ‘finish line’ than the blond’s, but the other nation didn't seem too concerned about the obvious disadvantage. The Italian had been thinking of what to say to the other nation after he won when the stupid little creature he’d chosen suddenly turned and started sliding diagonally back down the fucking window. The blond cracked up as Romano shouted throwing his hands down on the breakfast table, and England made some smartass comment about moving the plates before Romano could destroy them. He felt stupid as the memories of yesterday morning came flooding back making him tuck his hands in his lap in embarrassment.

“Damn it, you little bastard turn around already!” The more irritated he gets the more the island nation laughs, but he’s too fucking annoyed to appreciate the blond’s amusement. The snail doesn't turn around no matter how much the Italian yells at it, instead continuing on down the window picking up speed as it goes.

“Retreating already?” The shit-eating grin on the pale man’s face is really pissing him off. 

“Fuck you!” England scoffs crossing his arms. “The hell are you going? Damn you!” That victorious grin vanishes when England’s own snail stops in it’s tracks and just stays in it’s spot. Romano’s very awkwardly changes direction again now going sideways, but at least it's moving, or it was until the fucking thing went and fell off the window. The fucking Tea-Bastard started laughing again obviously going to win, or so both nation’s thought, but the remaining creature showed no signs of continuing up the window. Two sets of green eyes watched it for over twenty minutes, but there was no more movement, and Romano had to wonder if it had died or something.

Eventually the blond sighs turning away from the window to take a sip from his mug of tea “Let’s...call it a draw, shall we?” 

“Uh, yeah. Okay.” The two sit there in awkward silence for a few minutes, until the blond suddenly stands from the table breaking the quiet, and making him jump.

“I'm going to wash up the plates. Are you finished?” He nods passing England his plate still not happy about the situation with the cast around his foot, or the other nation’s doting attitude. Getting used to the crutches had been a pain in the ass, but he’s just about able to make his way around confidently enough now. It’s only a busted ankle, but the Tea-Bastard has been treating the shorter nation like he’s dying constantly asking if he’s okay or if he wants anything. Getting up and down the stairs is difficult on his own, but he’s still able to walk around and do most things without help - it just takes twice as long. He doesn't need or want the blond constantly babying him. England had even offered to cook breakfast that morning just so Romano wouldn't have to walk anymore than necessary, but he very quickly and forcefully shot the blond down before he could even finish talking. Injured or not he's not letting the younger nation anywhere near the kitchen unsupervised.

After the dishes were done they made their way to the island nation’s office to finally begin the trade report. The walk had been eerie and quiet. There was no birdsong, no calls from the cattle or horses in the fields only the echoing of their footsteps (and the thump of the crutches) on the old wooden floor and the deafening sound of the still pouring rain. The blond didn't say anything as he opened the door to the little room just silently made his way over to the window to pull open the metallic blinds before sitting down at the chair behind the desk. Pale hands pressed flat against the smooth surface of the solid wood as he gave the Italian a small smile and motioned for him to sit in one of the two armchairs facing the desk.

“Make yourself comfortable.” The blond’s voice broke the heavy silence, and Romano sat down without complaint placing the crutches down on the floor as quietly as he could as he sunk into the cushions. He had tried to concentrate on working on the report as the blond waffled on about taxes, immigration, and international trade agreements between their two nations, but he was so distracted by the man’s voice he had been all but useless in the discussion. It’s not his fault politics is boring, but this had been the whole reason why he’d come to the island nation in the first place, so every time he found his mind wondering the Italian did his best to try and focus on what the blond was saying only to get hopelessly distracted again.

It's hard to see much in the dim light of the little office. The green crystal table lamp isn't nearly powerful enough light up the room, but the soft yellow glow surrounds the pale nation in a halo of gentle golden light. England hasn't looked up once from the mass of papers scattered on the large oak desk in front of him, and it's not like he's bored but- no, that's a complete lie, he's bored out of his fucking mind as he sits there in silence waiting for that moment when the other man does finally look up and he can see those stunning peridot orbs again.

His own olive green eyes look down from England’s face to settle on the cursive letters flowing from the ink pen in the other nation’s hand. It's like he’s watching a dance - each carefully drawn character joins with it’s partner to form beautifully intricate words as they waltz across the sheet of crisp white paper. He's never really considered writing an art form before. Sonnets and poetry, yeah, but he's never really taken an interest in how the words are actually written. He’d gone with his brother to see one of Japan’s calligraphy writings once, but he’d found it kind of boring since he couldn't actually read any of the characters the Asian nation had drawn. Well, he can't read half the words England is writing either. The cursive characters are hard to differentiate when they’re all woven together, especially since he's trying to read them upside-down.

He's honestly not good at reading English, or any other foreign languages really, apart from Spanish, and as much as he detests it a bit of German too. Even the old man's long dead Latin gets him confused sometimes now. He used to be able to read it perfectly when he was a child. The old bastard was always so proud of him every time he learned a new word. Back then the old geezer used to spoil him rotten, and little Neapolis (God, how long has it been since someone has called him that?) loved the attention, but of course that was long before perfect little Veneziano had to come along and ruin everything. It’s annoying how much he misses those days. When it was just him and Nonno. Fuck. He’s not going to cry, damn it. He's not a stupid little kid anymore, but he really does miss the crazy old fucker sometimes.

Crazy doesn't even begin to describe the old fart. He remembers one time Nonno had thought it would be a fucking fantastic idea to take him to see the fights. He’d been completely traumatised by all the graphic scenes playing out before him, and then the lion came out. He’d been mesmerised by the majestic creature. It was beautiful, large and obviously powerful. The fact that his Nonno had such an amazing beast captured and brought back to Rome from an entirely different continent fascinated and amazed him. He truly revered the old man - his Nonno was the greatest nation to have ever lived, until the bastard proclaimed the creature to be killed to satisfy the bloodthirsty crowd. Then the little nation had started screaming punching the empire in the gut as he sat on the man’s knee cursing him out as the mighty creature’s final roar filled his ears. He was heartbroken and fucking traumatised all over again. 

The haunting cry of violin strings and gentle piano chords ebbs softly around the little room from the old gramophone in the corner. The hallow music matches his melancholy mood, and masks the sounds of the pelting rain hitting the old window. Another bright blue flash floods the dim room from outside causing the power to flicker briefly, and in a split second it's off, and the room falls into darkness. The dim light coming from outside only reaches as far as the desk in front of the blond. 

The heavy electric charge in the air is giving him a serious headache, and the muffled warbling of the old record playing on the spring-coiled gramophone continues to drift through the office regardless of the power outage. He knows this piece - he just can't put a name to it off the top of his head. It’s one Austria used to play quite a lot during Germany’s occupation of his country. A deafening roll of thunder drowns out the music for a moment, and the hideous storm raging outside shows no sign of letting up anytime soon, but sat in the comfortable safety of the oversized green velvet armchair in the snug little room only feet away from the refined elegance that is England he really can't find it in himself to care.

The rain lightens a little and dim rays beginning to shine in between the thin slats of the metallic blinds illuminating the blond perfectly (England had closed them again as soon as the lightning had started). His wheat blond hair shines like pure gold, and his already striking peridot eyes sparkle dazzlingly behind long dark eyelashes, confident and mesmerising. Romano is falling hopelessly in love with those eyes. They hold so many different emotions, different personalities, that the brunet could happily sit there and just fall into them forever trying to discover all the secrets that are buried deep within that never ending sea of green. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that’s true then he could probably spend an eternity lost in that endless forest with no hope of escape trying to piece together the mystery that is England. 

It’s been years since he’s felt such overwhelming inspiration. He wants to illustrate all the vivid scenes he’s picturing, to bring them to life, and actually see them before his eyes, but he doesn't have any supplies with him not thinking for a second he’d need them. He’s not even sure he even has any at home.

England glows with every lightning strike, and Romano wants desperately to paint him. Beautiful, refined elegance laying perfect and naked in the dark dappled in intense beams of fractured sunlight. The blond would look ravishing covered just barely in scarlet silks that contrast so perfectly against his porcelain skin. The image in his mind is beautiful, so completely breathtaking that the bewitched Italian had actually found himself holding his breath as he pictured it. Red and gold; royal, passionate colours that are associated with Nonno, and Spain, but he can't help but think as he sits there staring at the ethereal form in front of him that they suit England just as well. He truly is like a lion, golden, proud and strong. He can see the history in the man’s eyes as those shining peridot orbs gaze silently down at the papers across the desk. A great empire that once shook the world. 

He blames the strange dream he’d had for his weird artistic mood. He’d felt soft feather-light touches on his head as he enjoyed the warmth surrounding him from the blanket, and for a moment he hadn't been sure if he was dreaming or if Nonno had actually come to check up on him, It had been so surreal, and was more of a nightmare than a dream by the end. Romano had actually woken with tears in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks from the fear. It had been such a weird, terrifying yet beautifully surreal dream. It sucks he can't remember most of it now. 

Damn it, so much for not getting distracted while he's supposed to be working, but it's difficult not getting distracted when international trade relations are so fucking boring, and he’d had such a bizarre dream. He’d promised himself during breakfast that morning that he wasn't going to get carried away thinking about this interest he's developed for the blond Englishman either, but he’d spent most of the morning doing exactly that. He’s fucking hopeless.

At one o'clock the Englishman had decided to break for lunch (salad and sandwiches since the power was still out) irritable and unimpressed by the lack of input from his Italian ‘colleague’. He was snappish and exasperated complaining about how Romano is no better at assembling reports than Veneziano. The comment had pissed him off, but he couldn't deny it. He felt like such a fucking idiot, and had apologised rather bitterly for his distraction blaming it on the pain his ankle was causing him. A complete lie given he had been almost numb most of the morning from the prescribed pills he had taken after he had woken up, but he couldn't just come out and tell the blond the real reason he was so absent minded during the meeting - not without looking like a complete moron. 

England had stilled frozen in his seat with a look of shame and disbelief. He turned to the brunet his acidic eyes filled with shock and guilt. “Bloody hell, Romano! I-I’m sorry! I didn't even think - I truly apologise for being so inconsiderate. -” Romano is just an easily distracted asshole who can't focus, and was too embarrassed to admit it. He hadn't meant to make the other nation feel guilty, but he didn't say a fucking word. Just let the blond keep agonising over his ‘rudeness’ as they sat at the breakfast table to eat their lunch.

“- Are you still in pain? You should have said something, you daft sod! Do you want to have a lie down? I can finalise all the minor details myself. I’ve never been a fan of all that “stiff upper lip” rubbish you know? If you need something or are uncomfortable for any reason please tell me right away, understand?” The brunet nodded not really registering the rambling. He never expected such concern from the blond (but he’d thought that before hadn't he?), and the Tea-Bastard's reaction seemed really over the top. Watching the blond freak out had been pretty funny though. It was like the man couldn't decide between being angry with the Italian for not saying anything or being overly concerned for his wellbeing and the fact that he was ‘in pain’.

It took him an hour to convince the blond he was fine enough to continue the meeting after downing some more painkillers. England had fretted like a worried parent, but had eventually agreed after Romano threatened to kill him in his sleep if he didn't shut up and stop coddling him. They slowly made their way back to the office. England dived right back into the stack of papers, and Romano had managed to follow along for around twenty minutes before getting hopelessly distracted again.

It's so messed up. In the space of four days he's gone from really, really disliking the Englishman because of what he's heard about him from other nations to realising he actually knows nothing about the man, because everything he's heard seems like complete bullshit, and then suddenly without warning came to the realisation that he’s got a fucking thing for the younger nation. He's still not sure what made him suddenly realise it, but he does. All these realisations and - and, feelings he's developed have just come from fucking nowhere, and they have him so messed up he's caught between possibly trying to go forward with it, and running back to Italy and pretending he just imagined the whole thing. 

The problem is he still doesn't know if he likes England ‘the nation’ enough to move forward, or if it’s only the ‘human’ side of the man he likes, or if he even really likes him at all and isn't just desperate to get laid. He likes the ‘human; civilian’ England. He knows that much, but he hardly knows anything about him as a nation, or about his people, history, or politics, you know the fucking important stuff. It would be perfectly fine if they were humans, because then he wouldn't feel at all conflicted about pursuing the blond. Fuck, he’d probably have already started trying to seduce the alluring bastard.

He turns his head up to look at the other man’s face, but the Englishman is still fully focused on whatever he’s writing totally unfazed by the terrible weather, and completely unaware of the little wrinkles that appear above his nose whenever he bites his lip in concentration. England’s so engrossed in the papers in front of him he probably wouldn't even hear the half-nation if he tried to contribute anything towards the report. The man doesn't even look away from the papers when he reaches into the little chocolates box between them, and blindly plucks out a random confection before plopping it in his mouth. It's not like he really cares about the stupid report - the blond man in front of him is far more interesting than international trade agreements, and he's so distracted trying to figure out what to do about these new feelings there's no way he can concentrate on such boring work. He does feel kind of stupid about it though since they are nations, and these kind of meets are important for their mutual wellbeing. 

There's another flash of lightning and a terrifyingly loud bang like something upstairs has exploded. Almost instantly afterwards the sound of thunder rolling across the sky fills the air so the startling noise couldn't of been the thunder. His heart is still hammering away in his chest from the shock, and judging from the panic in his eyes England is just as startled as he is. A couple of seconds pass and he has to force the words past the lump in his throat. “What the fuck was that?” His voice is high-pitched and shaky, and he's clutching the material of his trousers so tightly he's got cramp in his fingers. He eases his grip slightly and tries to calm his racing pulse, but the island nation’s frazzled expression isn't doing anything to ease his nerves.

England reaches across the desk for his phone, and the movement of his arm casts an eerie long dark shadow across the room. His own phone is carefully balanced on the little end table next to the armchair he's currently sitting in adding a little more light to his side of the dark room. The blond hastily shines the ‘torch’ around - careful not to blind the Italian sitting opposite him as he does, and runs his free hand over his face before looking up at the brunet with tired eyes.

“Bloody hell. Romano, I’m going-”

“Fuck no!” He doesn't even let the other nation finish. There no fucking way he's sitting here in this tiny little room in the fucking dark all by himself while England goes off wandering around the house trying to find whatever made the loud noise. It's like a scene from every shitty horror movie ever made, and having spent countless hours watching them with that moron America in the past he knows by now that splitting up is the worst possible thing they could possibly do, because someone always dies, and between him and England the chances are it would probably be him. Okay, so maybe he's exaggerating a bit. It’s just a power outage. It's not like there's some crazy axe murderer hiding in the dark waiting to kill them, but still. Shitty horror movies aside splitting up is still a pretty stupid idea, because if something does happen there's no way either of them would know or be able to help if they’re on opposite side or levels of the house. “If you’re going, Bastard, I'm going too.”

“As much as I appreciate the offer I think it would be best if you stay here while I-”

“I said no.” 

“Romano listen to-”

“No, you listen, fucker. I said no and I fucking mean no, so shut it.” He sends the man a glare which is quickly returned. Those impressive brows the blond is so well known for are cast down shadowing his angry eyes giving the bastard an almost evil look as he sits there in the dark.

“If you’d shut your gob for a second, you impatient git, and let me finish-”

“No.”

There a deep sigh but the taller man doesn't say anything else he just slams his empty hand down on the desk in annoyance causing the wood to groan in protest. He rises from his chair causing it to roll backward across the wooden floor until it bumps against the wall under the window where it finally comes to a stop. England swiftly maneuvers his away from behind the desk, and easily dodges Romano’s arm when he tries to grab for the blond as he storms past him towards the open door.

“Bastard! Come back!” Before he can say anything else the blond is gone. He can't fucking believe it! “Come back here, you asshole! You can't just leave me here alone! England, you fucker! England! Damn it! Come back! I'm serious you bastard! It's fucking dark in here! Please!” His desperate cries apparently fall on deaf ears because the selfish fucker doesn't come back, and he knows the bastard can still hear him. The sound of fading creaks on the wooden floorboards fills him with fear, because he seriously can't believe the man just left him alone like this. 

He slowly reaches into the darkness for his phone and quickly opens the case to check the time. Three thirty-seven in the afternoon. He hesitantly pans the little make-shift flashlight around the creepy office, and nearly screams when it lands on the coat-rack in the corner casting a human-like shadow up the wall, and he has to wonder why the fuck there's a coat-rack in an office, but he doesn't think too much on it because a lot of shit about England's place makes no sense. Just like the man himself. Everything looks so strange and distorted. He hadn't noticed it before, but now he's alone the little room is seriously fucking creepy.

Three thirty-nine and he's still alone in the dark little office. He can't hear England walking around anymore, and the room feels like it's closing in on him as he sits there in panicked silence. He's never been claustrophobic or anything before, in fact he usually prefers smaller places because large open spaces make him feel exposed and uneasy. Every time he moves his phone it casts weird shadows all over the place, and more than once he's had to do a double-take because he swears he just saw something fucking mov- “Fuck!!” He screams like a child and pulls his legs up on the armchair to protect himself which is fucking hard to do in the dark with a cast on your foot. 

His plastered ankle knocks the crutch leaning against the armrest of the seat and sends it crashing to the ground. The noise seems unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet room and he physically jumps backward to plant his back firmly against the inside of the chair. His heart is beating a mile a minute and tears are prickling the corners of his eyes as he quickly scans his surroundings. He tucks his knees under his chin and quietly whispers the Lord’s prayer. It's not comfortable at all, damn it, but he feels a bit safer now, but the eerie shadow right in front of him is back and blocks out all of the light. It takes a second but then he realises the thing that's causing the large shadow is his sleeve blocking the light on his phone. Shit. He's such a stupid fucking idiot.

Three forty-eight. There's a strange repetitive scratching noise coming from behind him, but after the incident with his phone he doesn't want to go jumping to conclusions again. If he listens closely it's easy to tell the noise is coming from the needle of the gramophone knocking against the finished record, so he doesn't freak out, and is honestly proud of himself for staying calm and figuring out what was causing the noise. He shuts his eyes for a second, so he can try to focus on what else he can hear since he can't really see much of anything apart from the desk and chair illuminated by the dull sunlight shining in around the edges of the small window blind. 

The sound of the heavy rain outside floods his ears, and if he focuses hard enough he can also make out the faint ticking of the carriage clock on the mantle in the living room next door. He can't hear England though. He should be able to hear the man moving around, right? So why can't he? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He knew them going separate ways was a fucking terrible idea. He's so terrified he can't even move. He sinks his back as far into the padded chair as he can and loops his arms around his knees trying to tuck his hands between them so he's completely shielded.

Four-o’clock and the chiming of the carriage clock echoes throughout the entire lower level of the house. He vaguely hears one single creak from the floor behind him, but afterwards the room remains just as silent as before, and he curls himself up tighter. Just in case. A few seconds pass and he hears it again. One very faint creak on the floor. He feels like he's being watched. A shiver runs down his spine as a single tear streams down the side of his face, and all the little hairs on his body stand on end. A small whimper escapes his lips as he twists his entire body to try and look behind him. There's nothing there. Just empty darkness and the open door leading to the hall. He turns back round and sinks into the chair. The material of his trousers is rough against his tear-stained face as he tries to rub away the salty droplets still trickling down his cheeks. 

The lightning has almost completely stopped, and the rolls of thunder are getting further and further apart, but the power is still out and the rain keeps falling. The missing Englishman still hasn't returned from wherever the fuck he's gone either, and he's beyond freaked out and tired from being freaked out. It really does feel like he's stuck in the middle of a horror movie.

Maybe he should go look for blond...He casts the idea away as soon as the thought enters his mind. There's no way he's going to move from the safety of his chair, damn it, but what if something really has happened to the other man? Shit. This is why he didn't want the fucker to go wandering off on his own. If the blond needs help or something there's no way the brunet will get to him in time in the dark with his busted ankle. Some loose strands of hair fall out of place and tickle the side of his neck so he reaches up to scratch the irritating itch and brush the strands away, but as well as the hairs tickling his skin he also feels the gentle touch of something softly tracing up and down along the side of his neck. It'd be really comforting if it wasn't for the fact that he’s alone in the fucking room! His body freezes up and he feels ice run through his veins. He's quaking in fear and his heart is hammering away in his chest so hard it might just explode, and ever so slowly he turns to look behind. 

Everything happened so quickly after that the Italian still doesn't understand how he's ended up on the floor facing the armchair he was just sitting in, but he does remember screaming and accidentally launching his phone across the room, and - and something big looming behind him. The panic wells up inside of him again as he casts his eyes around the room hoping to catch sight of whatever he saw behind him, and t-touched him, damn it! Where the fuck is England? There's nothing to see but darkness and weird distorted shapes throughout the room. It's still as silent and empty in the little room as it was minutes ago. He's still alone and more petrified than ever, and why the fuck won't England just come back already?!

His fingers brush against something the cold metallic touch makes him jump, but he quickly realises it's the stand to the tall floor lamp which was stood next to the armchair that is now laying on its side on the floor next to him. That makes sense; he must have knocked it over when he freaked out, and he was too panicked to notice. He's alone. On the floor. In a dark room with no source of light and no idea where the hell he's tossed his phone. Shit. When he looks up again there's a bright ball of yellowy-white light just floating in front of him above the back of the armchair, but when he blinks the light has moved lower to hover by to the side of the chair directly in front of him. The brunet stares completely frozen. The tears streaming down his face are joined by uncontrollable whimpers as he scurries backwards away from the orb of light. He can't see anything. Just the empty darkness around him and the blinding flare in front of his face. The Italian closes his eyes and curl into a ball head on his knees and hands on his head - still crying. This is so freaky, so fucking freaky. He never imagined something like this would happen to him. Sure he believes in ghosts, but he's never actually seen one before - well, apart from Nonno.

One eye opens followed by the other to try and locate the freaky ghost-light, but he can't see it, and the rain is so loud he can't even hear his own pounding heartbeat. He finds the light again and tries to look past it without blinding himself only to come face to face with a pair of mischievous green eyes. “Boo...” He screams again and punches the ‘thing’ in the chest reflexively before flinging himself backwards until his back is flushed directly against the cold wood of the old oak desk. The tears still falling down his face blur his vision for a second, but when he wipes his eyes he's greeted with a smug smirk and sparkling green. 

One. Two. Three. Four...It takes him four seconds to realise he's staring straight at England, and the smug bastard is laughing his ass off and smirking like the utter asshole that he is. “Lord, Roma-Romano, a-are you alright?” No, he isn't fucking “alright”, but he'd feel a hell of a lot better if the bastard would stop laughing at him. “Jesus, Romano, I didn't mean to spook you that badly. Come here.” A pale hand is extended towards him with an apologetic smile. He stares at the other completely dumbfounded for a second before breaking down into relieved sobs. He'd been so fucking terrified, and yet the bastard went and played a fucking joke on him like that? He can't believe it. What an utter asshole. 

“You're such a-a fucking a-asshole.” He can hardly breathe he's crying so much. “Why the fuck wo-uld you do that, you fuck-er?” His rambling in Italian probably doesn't make any sense to the island nation, but he's so emotional he can't help it. Who the fuck goes out of their way to scare someone like tha-Actually probably every fuckers he knows; himself included. Shit. Why the fuck are nations such dicks? There's a warm touch on his head - England is petting him with a gentle smile and soft feather-like touches, damn it. It feels really nice, and the sudden tenderness has him in tears all over again! Fuck!

“Hush, now. It's alright. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. Calm down.” He nods his head and tries to regulate his breathing, but the sniffles and tears won't stop. The Englishman's hand is kind and gentle. It kind of reminds him of Spain. He casts his eyes up to look at that soft smile, and feels the blush spread across his already heated cheeks embarrassment setting in as the panic subsides. The blond's phone had been placed down on the floor beside them while the pale man tries to soothe and calm the panicked brunet. He feels better knowing the other nation is there. A stray finger softly brushes against his curl sending a spark of warmth coursing through him that has the brunet instinctively trying to press his head further into that wonderful touch. England doesn't seem to notice and continues to comfort the still sniffling Italian. “Okay, let's get you up off the floor and then you can tell me what spooked you so much.” He sniffles and takes the blond's extended hand. His heart misses a beat as he's suddenly yanked forward into that toned chest and he feels more than hears the other man's rhythmic heartbeat. 

The bastard is seriously fucking strong to be able to pull the Italian's entire body weight from the floor like that with only one arm. England hoists him up onto his good foot and Romano reaches out automatically to grab onto the blond's arm to stop himself from falling over. The Brit helps the Italian hobble his way across the dim room before slowly depositing him back into the armchair. Their hands join as the blond helps to ease the Italian down into the seat, and he finds himself not wanting to let go, because England’s hand is warm, and strong, and safe; all the things his idiot brother says to describe the way the Potato-Bastard makes him feel. Fuck...

A couple of seconds pass. Only the sound of the pouring rain echoing through the house can be heard, and the brunet notices the two nations still haven't let go of each other's hand. Heat floods to the Italian’s face and warms his entire body. He looks up hesitantly and finds those peridot orbs that are still full of warmth and tenderness as they look back down at him. Fuck. His heart is pounding, but this time it's from embarrassment. He might have a fucking heart attack if this keeps up, because he can't handle all these intense emotions. It's like something out of a cheesy romance movie, but this is real, and feels so fucking strange. Like time is standing still. 

Fuck! He can't handle this. It's too embarrassing. He looks down cheeks still flushed and heart thumping as he bites his lip. The small movement seems to break the spell for England too, because he drops the Italian's hand and springs backwards. Damn it. “A-ah. There we go. Listen, I'm-I’m err...very sorry. I didn't think you'd freak out like that. I shouldn't have scared you. It was a ridiculous thing to do, and extremely stupid of me.” A small laugh escapes the blond’s lips, but it's forced and not at all humours. He gets it. He would have found it funny too if it was the other way around, and honestly he wouldn't have thought twice about trying to scared the other nation. There's just one thing that's still bothering him though.

“Don't-don't worry about it, Bastard. By the way, where the fuck did you go?” The Englishman leans down to pick up the fallen lamp and put it back in place before heading to half-sit, half-lean on the back of the desk. The atmosphere in the little office is so fucking awkward, damn it. 

“I went to go find a torch, but you would have known that if you quieted down long enough for me to tell you.” Oh. Well shit, now he feels fucking stupid. The bastard apparently saw the change in the other nation's expression, because that smug smirk is back, and as sexy as it is that expression is just fucking annoying when it's directed at him, but he kind of deserves it for jumping to conclusions and presuming the bastard was just going to leave him behind to go explore. Thinking about it now that would be kind of stupid. There's no way the blond would just leave him there in the dark for no reason. He’d honestly thought the bastard was just going to leave him there alone in the dark for hours on end while he went to go find the source of the strange notice they'd both heard. Fuck America for making him so paranoid. He wants to kiss that stupid smirk right off the Englishman's stupid smug face…Fuck! he can't believe he seriously just thought that. What the hell?

He doesn't really trust his voice to work, but the awkward silence is deafening. “Did you find one?”

The pale man gives him a blank stare as if he's said something completely stupid. “Oh, yes, I did, and I then I decided to leave it behind and wander my way back here in the pitch black just for the sheer hell of it.” Ugh. Right, that was a fucking stupid question. “Well, actually, to be honest with you I did actually find one, but the batteries are dead, so it's utterly useless, and my phone is just about out of battery as well. How much charge is left on yours by the way?” Shit.

“I, err, don't know. I kind of...Threw it somewhere when you scared me, Bastard.” Now it's the Englishman's turn to look dumbfounded.

“You're joking.”

He shakes his head. “No.” Seriously, why the fuck would he joke about something like that?

“Bugger. Well it shouldn't be too difficult to find. This room is rather on the small-side, so hopefully it'll turn up soon. Think you can sit still while I try to find it or are you going to start screaming again the moment I turn around?”

“Fuck you.” The blond scoffs this time, but smiles, and Romano’s heart skips a beat at the sight, damn it. If only he did have his phone he could take a picture then every time he's feeling shit he can look at that smile and-Fuck! What the hell is he thinking? The blond pushes himself away from the desk with a smile, and the brunet rolls his eyes and crosses his tanned arms over his chest like he's pissed of at the man, but there's a small smile tugging at his lips betraying his unamused expression. Fuck, he can't even control his own fucking face around the bastard, but it's nice having someone he can be himself around without them getting offended at every word he says. 

It's one of the main reasons he feels so comfortable around the blond. Even Spain gets pissed at him for his dickiesh attitude sometimes, and it's annoying having to try and filter himself all the time. He hasn't had to do that once since he's been staying at England’s. The blond is just as sarcastic and ill-humoured as he is and it's really nice just being able to let his guard down a bit and be able to relax. He really, really likes the blond's messed up sense of humour (even when he uses it to scare him shitless), and his eyes too. He likes the blond's cheeky expressions and his sarcasm, and- Shit. His face is on fucking fire, but the other man is thankfully completely oblivious. 

At some point during Romano’s mental musings England had started his search for the brunet’s missing phone, and from his elevated position on the chair the Italian has got a clear view of the blond’s ass as the man crawls around the floor in those dark, deliciously tight skinny jeans. Thanks to the bright flare coming from England's phone the blond is almost glowing in the darkness of the room. England's porcelain skin looks almost translucent under the harsh LED light like he's some kind of ethereal being or something, and if it wasn't for his foul mouth and violent temper (like he’s one to talk, che) the blond could almost pass as an angel in disguise. He understands why the Pervert-Beard calls the younger blond an angel so often now. 

Olive eyes wander back down to that clothed backside again, and Romano really does try to force himself not to stare, at first, but he honestly can't help himself and gives in to the temptation. The tight denim material is stretched wonderfully over the pale man’s backside showing off the curve of his ass perfectly. He tries again to force himself to peel his eyes away from the delicious sight before him, but it's just too fucking irresistible. 

His resolve doesn't even last two minutes, and once again his green eyes are searching for the blond in the dark. It doesn't take long; the bright light from England’s phone makes the man easy to see even in the gloom. He needs to try and distract himself, because there no fucking way he's going to be able to hide a fucking boner with the blond only feet away from him. There's nothing of interest to look at though, apart from the other nation that is. All he can see are the silhouettes of furniture and long distorted shadows surrounding the Brit on the floor.

He can't even take his thoughts off the fascinating bastard for more than a few seconds. What the hell is wrong with him? Ever since the sofa incident on Sunday his mind has been swamped by thoughts of England, or more specifically his body. Maybe thinking about ways to improve his relationship with the island nation might help. It'll hopefully stop him from getting too distracted thinking about other things if nothing else. Since he can't seem to think about anything other than the Englishman anyway he might as well do something productive with his thoughts instead of sitting around staring at the man’s ass.

Where to start...Well, first, what does he actually know about England ‘the nation’...Not a lot really, apart from obvious things like where it is geographically, and that they speak English. In England. No fucking shit. This is so stupid. They've been around each other for a thousand years. During that time they’ve supported each other as allies and fought tooth and nail as bitter enemies (well, not personally, he’d never be fucking stupid enough to try and fight the other nation himself). The Italian should be able to come up with something a little more in-depth than England’s native language being fucking English. Shit. He's getting nowhere with this. How the hell is it possible to know of someone for almost a millennia and not know a thing about them? He takes a minute to think as he absentmindedly watches the cause of his turmoil shuffle around on the dusty wooden floor, and the realisation that he knows even less about England as person than he knows about him as a nation is just too fucking depressing, and not to mention embarrassing. It's no fucking wonder all the other nations think he's a waste of fucking space.

It's like the blond is on a completely different level. He’s a talented nation with skills in diplomacy, industry, military and agriculture, and remains a world power and prominent member of the global stage despite no longer being an empire. Nothing at all like him. A weak, isolated half-nation whose only moderate skills are in farming and tourism. Veneziano is still more globally recognised as Italy than he is thanks to his industry and international connections, despite the fact that Rome is Romano’s city, and the Colosseum and the Vatican are his, well, actually the Vatican is Vatican City’s, but it's in Rome so it still fucking counts! 

His history is richer and more culturally diverse than his brother’s as well, so why the fuck does everyone love the little idiot so fucking much? His brother is even better at him when it comes to fighting which is fucking sad given he's the older of the two and has spent far more time over the years fighting for his independence with almost every fucking nation on the planet. Damn it! When will those bastards get it through their heads that Naples and Sicily are his? Stupid fuckers always trying to invade his stuff…Veneziano is no better with the way he prances around Rome calling himself Italy. He should just fuck off back to Venice and marry the Potato-Fucker or something, proclaim Venice is own capital, and stay the fuck out of Rome and the rest of his brother’s half of the country while he’s at it. His true heart may be in Naples, but he’d inherited his grandfather’s city after he died - not Veneziano, so why the hell should it be a ‘neutral territory’ and a shared capital? Okay, so it’s in the centre of their country and makes a convenient divide between their two regions, but the old fart had handed it down to him - not Veneziano. Why should he have to fucking share it?

Fuck. He’s making himself angry. 

Even with his brother’s tactical knowledge (drilled in by the Potato-Bastard no doubt), and Romano’s years of bloodied experience with war England still has them both beaten when it comes to military affairs. The man is just plain scary when it comes to any kind of military endeavor. War and fighting in general seem to be something he is fairly skilled at. For a little island nation that no one really cared about to suddenly become a major world power almost overnight is kind of a terrifying thought. It took Nonno and Spain hundreds of years to reach the height of their empires, and then England came along and overpowered everyone in half the time like he was born for it. Only to grow continuously stronger and more influential until America’s-Don't talk about America’s independence. He's not sure how the Brit’s people feel about it, but according to America himself, England’s personal condition gets bad every time it's mentioned, so that's definitely something to avoid. Actually, not talking about the blue-eyed moron at all would probably be the safest course of action around the Englishman. 

Okay, so that's a few things, what else? His eyes land on the little tray of slowly melting chocolates on the desk. England and his people love sweets. A lot. He'd have to be fucking stupid not to have realised that by now. York alone seems to house many dessert-based cafes and tea shops. The Italian can definitely use that to his advantage in trying to befriend the blond. They make some of the best desserts in the world at his place after all, so captivating the Englishman with delicious sweets should be easy. He has to laugh at the thought of trying to seduce the bond with food. It's just too ridiculous. If it was America he was interested in then yeah he could understand it, but trying to pursue England with food just seems weird. How did he even start thinking about this in the first place? Oh, right. He'd been thinking about how he realised that England likes sweets. Italian cuisine seems quite popular at the island nation’s place right now too (as it fucking should be; Italian food it the greatest in the world). Romano must have seen about ten different Italian-style cafes and restaurants when he was (getting lost) looking around the marketplace in York, and England has always complimented his cooking so far. At least England has decent taste, even if he can't cook for shit.

England’s younger people are also quite fashion-conscious. Word of London’s growing fashion industry has even reached Sicily. Of course it's nothing compared to Milan’s, but at least it's something. The weird thing is the island nation himself definitely isn't clued in on fashion at all. Yeah, no, shit. Everything the blond owns is old, even his sexy skinny jeans are outdated, but that's easy enough to fix. He'll just have to drag the bastard out shopping sometime kicking and screaming if he has to. Not that he'd actually be physically able to, damn it, but whatever, he can work out ways to persuade the blond later. There's no way he can just let the nation carry on wearing those hideous suits he's heard so much about from Veneziano. The way his brother goes on about it they must be close to criminal. Fuck, he's decided. He's taking England shopping one way or another, and if the brunet happens to pick out some clothes that are rather pleasing to the eyes then that's just a coincidence. If he's going to go to all that effort to update England’s wardrobe he’s definitely going to get something out of it for himself while he’s at it. 

A soft sigh draws his attention back to the pale man currently sat down on the dusty wooden floor. “I don't suppose you have any idea where-abouts you threw your phone? I can't for the life of me find it anywhere.” He shakes his head. The blond lets out an irritated huff and runs a hand over his head to brush back the stray blond locks that have fallen out of place. The upward movement of his arm pulls his t-shirt up and exposes a small patch of pale skin across that taut stomach, and Romano’s olive green eyes fixate on the spot of bare skin instantly. He drinks in the arousing sight before him for a moment before the other man lowers his arm and ruins it. There's a lump in the Italian's throat, and no matter how hard he tries he can't seem to form any actual words, but England is expecting some kind of answer, so he tries, and fails, to force out some kind of reply, and instead of actual words all that comes out is a garbled noise. The Italian clears his throat and tries again. Fuck, he feels like such an idiot. 

“I, uh I don't know-” When did the room get so fucking hot? At least the blond hadn't noticed the Italian checking him out. He needs to get himself together or he is going to get caught sooner or later. “M-maybe it’s near the wall or something? I don't know.” The island nation rubs his eyes, but doesn't seem to notice the brunet's shaky voice, and stands up taking a moment to brush his hands and knees sending the dust from his clothes flying off in random directions throughout the room.

The harsh light from England’s phone makes the millions, probably billions, of tiny dust particles visible, and they float around the Brit in weird swirling patterns before slowly drifting off into the office and then just as slowly waft back to circle the blond again like they're somehow drawn to him like a magnet. It's weird. He's never seen dust move like that before not that he's ever really bothered to notice. He doesn't pay that much attention to it, and puts the weird event down to static electricity or something from where the man had been crawling around on the floor. There's a loud creak as the Englishman leans against the desk, and the mediterranean nation watches the younger man’s every movement. He struggles to pull his legs up onto the velvety green armchair he's sitting on and tucks his chin into the dip between his knees careful not to strain his busted ankle. 

“Well that's a pain. I suppose we'll just have to wait it out then, and find your phone when the electrics come back on.” He nods his head silently not really listening. He's trying to figure out what the hell the bastard is looking at. England's eyes are glancing in the brunet’s direction, but the man’s not actually looking at the Italian. His sharp eyes are focused on something behind the half-nation's shoulder. A weird sense of deja vu washes over him as a shiver runs down his spine from the memory of being touched on the neck earlier, but that had been England fucking around trying to scare him. This time the other man is standing right in front of him, so if something does fucking jump him from behind can't blame it on the blond. Another shiver runs down his spine and chills his formerly heated body. The southern nation sits frozen to his seat as the blond continues to watch whatever it is move around behind the brunet’s back, but eventually it becomes too creepy for him, and he panics.

“What the fuck are you looking at, Bastard?” Shit. He didn't mean to snap like that. He needs to calm down before he freaks out and does something stupid and embarrassing like falling off the chair on to his ass on the floor again. England finally notices the brunet's frustrated expression, and looks directly at him instead of whatever he had been looking at before.

“Ah...Sorry about that. It's nothing. I was just lost in thought for a moment.” The Englishman pauses for a second to look past Romano again before looking back to meet the brunet’s startled green eyes. “That aside. Are you alright? You're not feeling sick are you?” The half-worried, half-curious look on the other man's face confuses him for a second as he struggles to translate the words in his head.

Damn it. He's curled up in the chair almost in the fetal position probably with a shitty expression on his face, so it's not really that strange that the Englishman would be concerned. He's agitated and wants to tell the Englishman to fuck off, but that would probably just cause even more questioning from the other man, so he resists and shakes his head causing his hair to turn static from rubbing against the velvety material of the armchair. “It’s nothing. ‘M fine.”

It's an obvious lie, and the blond doesn't buy it for a second. The concern in those alluring orbs has turned to irritation, but before the other nation can open his mouth and question the Italian the power flicks back on and disrupts the blond. The sound of England's laptop booting up on the desk and the soft hum of the little radio on the miniature bookshelf in the corner distracts him for a second, but it's the glowing smile spread across the blond's pink lips that's really got his attention, because it's directed right at him, and, damn it, the mediterranean man really wishes he had a camera right now, because the Englishman looks so adorable with that happy grin on his face. The blond's smile and the joy in those captivating eyes sends a wave of warmth through the brunet's veins making his cheeks flush and his heart start to beat rapidly in his chest, but the nagging thought of whatever was and could still be behind him stops him from being able to relax completely. He doesn't really care about the electrics or passing storm, or even the rain still pouring outside. He's too busy trying not to burst into flames from all the conflicting emotions coursing through his body. 

There's really is nothing in the little office to distract himself with. Just like earlier all he can see is the furniture and pictures hanging on the walls. The pictures and furniture don't look anywhere near as creepy now he can actually see them clearly in the light, except for one of an old woman holding a baby hanging on the wall above the radio behind the desk. That one's even more terrifying in the light than in the dark. It's like the woman is staring right at him with that pained expression in her eyes, and the baby honestly looks kind of dead with its pale white-grey skin, and lifeless blue eyes. Maybe it's supposed to be that way. It would explain the woman’s tears, but that's a fucking weird picture to have hanging in an office. Who the fuck would want to own a picture of some random old woman holding a dead baby? Never mind the sick bastard that thought about painting it in the first place. He takes his mind off the scary picture and mentally laughs at himself. He can't believe he's getting creeped out again. He'd gotten so freaked out earlier, and that was before the blond went out of his way to scare the brunet stupid. He’d gotten so scared just from being sat alone in the dark room he'd started crying. He's always been jumpy, but even for him that was kind of dumb, but so is getting spooked by a painting. 

England is still smiling softly as he looks down at his phone to turn off the flashlight. It makes no sense to the Italian that the blond seems so perfectly comfortable around him. England appeared to be genuinely concerned when Romano had freaked out earlier. He’d even fucking p-petted the Italian's head, damn it. It was really nice to be touched so gently like that. He felt really safe with the man comforting him and reassuring him softly, but now the blond probably thinks he's some kind of pathetic little weakling that need constant coddling - like Veneziano! Fuck! Spain's stupid face and annoying “fusososo” suddenly appears in his mind. He doesn't need or want another brother/father-figure (that’d be freaking weird since the blond is younger than him), especially not from England. He's far too sexually attracted to the blond to get stuck in that kind of platonic relationship. 

The sad part is he doesn't know how to move toward. Damn it. Only yesterday he wasn't even sure he wanted to, and now he’s desperately trying to think of ways to become closer with the the blond nation that he's driving himself mad with frustration and lust. These stupid feelings are growing so fast he has to wonder if he hasn't always been subconsciously curious about the English nation. Sure, he's always found the blond's sudden rise to imperial power fascinating, and kind of sexy, but he thought the same thing about Spain once too. There's nothing strange about it. Strong influential nations are attractive, even snot nosed brats like America. 

As he thinks about it more he realises it's not just the blond’s powerful history that interests him. He really wants to know more about England. Not just his past as a nation, but more in-depth things such as the man's likes and dislikes, his interests (he already knows the blond likes sweets and gardening) or stuff that's important to him, like his family or his cat - what is it’s name again? He wants to know about things that really matter to the Englishman. What's it called? His moral values, life goals, his aspirations? Whatever it's called he wants to know what the blond’s views are on all sorts of different things l-like relationships and his personal ideals. Shit like that. The blond has probably mentioned things in general conversation, but since the events of Sunday morning Romano has found himself thinking more with his dick then his brain. He's probably missed a lot of stuff the other man has told him, because the brunet probably got distracted and started fantasising while the Brit was talking. Like now, England is talking and the mediterranean nation has missed every single word of it.

“- ano? Are you daydreaming again? Honestly every time I start talking you drift off. I know trade agreements are not the most exciting of things to talk about, but we really need t-” The blond is frowning making those impressive brows knit together like a giant fuzzy caterpillar. He can't help but mentally laugh at the bastard. He looks ridiculous. “Romano! Have you got any intention of listening to me? I've been standing here talking away to myself for the past-” The blond checks his phone. It's more for effect than anything else, but that's fine, because England’s silly little dramatics are really cute, no wait, fuck, no, cute is the only way to describe them. Damn it. “-Ten minutes, and you're still not listening.” He also really likes England's voice, even if he can't be bothered to translate the man's irritated rant it still sounds nice. His tone is gentle, slightly higher-pitched for a man, but still overly masculine, and his accent is easy to understand unlike the Yorkshireman he'd met in town whose name he can't remember now. It's just one more thing to add to the seemingly ever-growing list of things he likes about the younger nation.

“Are you hungry?”

…Huh?...The sudden question and the word “hungry” catches him off guard, but he was still too caught up in his own thoughts to really understand what the blond had just asked him. “A-ah, No?” His confusion only makes the Englishman chuckle, and heavy embarrassment wells up in the Italian's chest flushing his cheeks. “Sorry.” He struggles to try and translate the words in his head to figure out what the blond had said, but he’d completely missed it and has no idea. “What-What did you say?” The air is filled with the sound of the blond's laughter and the seemingly never ending rain hammering down outside. The island nation must have a clone, or an evil twin, or something that he sends in his place to meetings, because the man’s dreary reputation doesn't match the England standing before him at all, at least he doesn't think so. He’s honestly still not sure yet, but from what he's come to learn of the blond, and his people over the last couple of days (which is really nothing at all) his grumpy reputation is completely wrong. The blond gives Romano a kind smile, and the brunet feels his cheeks flush darker, and that same familiar heat floods his chest and pools out of his face again as he tries to fight back the moronic smile that's threatening to escape his lips.

“I asked if you’re hungry. I thought you might be peckish given that it’s almost dinner time.” Almost- He looks up at the ornate hanging clock on the wall and sure enough just as England had said it’s almost time for the blond’s dinner. How the hell is it half-past six already!? What the fuck?!

“Um, no I'm not, but if you want me to make some-” He doesn't get to finish his sentence the concerned look the blond is giving him cuts his thoughts off. Without warning the man pushes himself away from the desk and strides toward the once again panicking Italian. He's not sure what the blond is doing and the sudden warm touch on his forehead has the brunet reflexively pressing himself into the back of the chair to distance himself from the other’s hand. The back of England's palm remains pressed to the overheated skin of the Italian's face but nothing else happens. The realisation finally comes: the blond is checking his temperature. He allows himself to relax a little now that he knows he's not being attacked, though he can't think of any reason why the blond would attack him unprovoked. The pale nation is so close he can smell the Brit’s musky scent. He can't describe the smell. There’s nothing he can compare it to. It's just England’s natural scent, and it's intoxicating. Romano’s face must be really red because as England moves back to give him some space the blond throws him another concerned frown. He's gotten used to the man's facial expressions enough by now to know that there is actually a difference when it comes to England's frowns.

“You have a temperature and your face is extremely flushed. Why didn't you tell me you're feeling ill?” Shit. He never imagined the bastard would get upset. What the fuck? He's not even sick. The happy feeling of knowing England is worried about him is addictive. Damn it. If his heart beats any fucking faster it's going to leap right out of his chest, and then the blond will have something to worry about.

“I'm fine.” England’s not convinced. He just stands there frowning as the radio plays on in the background. What the fuck is he supposed to do? Shit, if the man would just back off a bit more maybe he could calm down a little. “I just need to sleep, is that okay, Bastard?!” He did it again. Spain always gets on his case about taking his frustration out on other people. He hopes he hasn't angered the blond any more. That would fucking suck. “Fuck, sorry. All this rain and shit is screwing me up. I can't get used to it.” Yeah, great idea. Blame it on the shit weather.

Ever so slightly the frown on England's face eases and is replaced by a small smile. “Ah, so that's it. I thought you might have gotten food poisoning fr-”

“Food poisoning?! Fucker! Who do you think you're talking to? My food is too fucking good for that to happen!” How dare that bastard say something like tha-

“Would you shut it?!” The sudden shout scares him into silence. He sits frozen with his back pressed firmly into the back of the chair staring at the blond dumbfounded. “You really need to learn to stop making assumptions like that. It's a terrible habit. I was talking about the chocolates I bought the other day. We both had some earlier-” Oh. Well, at least the blond wasn't insulting his food. “- and I was wondering if they might have turned a bit funny from the heat since my stomach isn't feeling particularly great at the moment. Then again I've never been good with dark chocolate to begin with.” The bastard better not start throwing up again. Still he’s learned something new about the blond. He's not good with bitter foods, coffee or dark chocolate. That sucks. He was planning on making tiramisu for dessert at some point. “I might throw them out just in case...”

“Don't! My stomach’s fine, Bastard, so don't throw them out.” England might fail at everything when it comes to cooking, but his people’s cakes and confections are actually pretty decent, so the blond must have some natural talent there. If the bastard actually focused on improving his existing skills instead of trying to dominate everything else his cooking might actually improve. If the bastard doesn't want the chocolates then Romano will just have to eat them himself won't he? You don't just throw out perfectly good chocolate like that, damn it. The taller nation is smiling at him again, but it's the kind of smile you'd give to a little kid when they do something cute or stupid. He wants to smack the look right off the blond’s stupid face. “What?” The look on his own tanned face must say it all because England's eyes cast down to the floor and his former smile slips.

“No, it’s nothing. If you want them that much then I won't bin them, but don't blame me if you get ill.” 

“If I do, Bastard, you better return the favour and take care of me.” Fuck, he can't believe he just said that.

The blond scoffs and crosses his arms as he backs away from the brunet like he's contagious. “No chance. I gave you fair warning. If you throw up from eating those chocolates then you can bloody well clean it up yourself.” Seriously? Asshole. Even after all the fucking effort Romano had put into making sure the blond was comfortable when he was delirious from giving himself heatstroke. Apparently the Italian is making a face again because the blond is laughing now. “I'm joking, you daft sod. As if I'd expect you to clean if you're throwing your guts up. I wouldn't do that. Seriously though, I still think it would be better to throw them away. If you want some chocolate that much I can always buy some more.”

“I said don't! I'll eat them. They've been in the fridge the whole time. They're fine.” He receives a small nod and the blond holds his arms up in mock surrender. A sense of victorious pride makes the brunet smirk, but it's short lived as England sits on top of the desk grinning like a madman.

“That's true. My stomach is all over the place though, so it has got to be your foo-”

“DONT. YOU. FUCKING. DARE!” The response had been so automatic he ended up screaming at the blond in Italian, but England doesn't seem to care as he creases up in hysterics and tries not to fall off the desk from laughing too hard. The moron groans out in pain as he clutches his stomach trying to stifle his laughing. Embarrassment floods the brunet’s face again. Damn it. He should have known the blond was trying to rile him up on purpose. England thinks he's so fucking funny, huh. Well he'll show him. He's not sure how, but he'll get the bastard back for all his stupid jokes. He throws an angry glare at the Englishman, but the more irritated he gets the more the other man laughs. “Shut the fuck up already!”

“S-sorry! I can't ! Your face!” He isn't happy, and the bastard knows it after a few more minutes of the annoying bastard chuckling away and angry scowling from the Italian the blond finally calms down enough to talk. “Your cooking is honestly delicious. I could and would happily eat it everyday. I really appreciate it.” He's not sure what the man is trying to say, so Romano throws him a sceptical glare. He never knows when the blond is being sarcastic or serious, but the praise has the Italian's heart beating a mile a minute regardless. Stupid confusing bastard messing up his emotions. It's not like he's not emotionally messed up enough as it is.

“If you don't want to piss me off, fucker, then don't fucking laugh at me! And don't talk shit about my cooking!” The blond is still grinning, but at least he's not fucking laughing now. He's definitely going around in circles. One minute he's fine then next the blond has him all riled up and unsure of what to do with himself. He’s caught between wanting to throttle the bastard, and kissing him senseless. If he doesn't get a break from all this emotional turmoil soon he's going to fucking explode.

The loud chiming of the carriage clock in the living room breaks the tension. England looks down to check his phone, but the screen remains black and unresponsive no matter how many times he presses the button. There's a huff from the other man and the phone is tossed down onto the desk with a thump. While England was distracted with his dead phone Romano had been distracted with thoughts of what to make for dinner. If neither nation is that hungry then there's no point in wasting time and ingredients on some fancy meal. Maybe he could just heat up some leftovers, and the blond would be fine with that? There’s still an entire stew, and some of the caponata left in the fridge. He'd rather take a nap than have to spend hours slaving over the stove, especially if no one's going to eat much of it anyway. He looks up to voice the thought to the Englishman, but the pale man is no longer sitting on the desk.

He can't see the blond anywhere, but a muffled scuffling behind the brunet draws his attention to the back of the room. It's not easy trying to twists his neck so he can see behind him with his legs up, and in the end he has to change his whole sitting position to face the doorway with his hands resting on the back of the chair. Sure enough there’s England crouched down on the floor combing around by an antique-looking bookshelf. He questions the bastard about what he's doing and in response the man holds up the Italian's previously missing phone. How the fuck it got there when he threw it forwards is anyone's guess, but at least it's been found, and the blond looks rather pleased with himself too. Like a well trained dog with a stick. Pfft. Idiot. He has to bite his lip to stop the grin breaking out across his face from the mental image, and he sinks down to hide his mouth behind the back of the seat so the blond can't see him smiling. 

“I spotted it a second ago. The battery’s gone though.” Like it matters. He can charge it later. It's not like he's in any hurry to call anyone. The only people he's got in his contacts minus England (he definitely isn't blushing, damn it), and all his ‘girlfriends’ are his brother, France and Spain, and there's no way he feels like talking to either of those bastards right now, especially not Spain. That fucker had promised to call him everyday to check in on him and then never bothered. He called once (maybe twice?), but that was it. He hasn't even gotten to tell the dopey fucker about his ankle or any of the other shit that's happened since the Englishman made himself sick on Saturday, so screw him.

He’s still glad the blond found his phone though. Chances are if it had been left to Romano himself to remember he'd probably have gotten all the way to back to Italy before realising he didn't have it, and then he'd have to go through all the trouble of getting it replaced and changing his contract. Again. That would have been a major pain in the ass.

He takes his phone giving the blond a small ‘thanks’ as he passes the brunet and sits himself down in the squeaky office chair behind the desk. The atmosphere is calm. Neither of them have anything to say. There’s nothing to talk about, so he looks out the slats in the window blind at the grey outside for a few minutes. It's still raining - no fucking surprise, but it's more like a drizzle now and the sky is tinted a muted yellow as the thin blanket of grey clouds mixes with the misty evening sun. It's also getting really humid. He can feel the sweat building up on his skin, and even though the island nation doesn't show it the Italian can tell the island nation is suffering more than he is. Just as he thinks about suggesting they move to the living room where it's more open the blond looks up and speaks the words right before they can leave the brunet’s mouth. He rolls his eyes, but agrees, and reaches for the crutches as England fumbles around with the stack of papers and his laptop.

Moving to the living room had been definitely been the right call. He's nice and relaxed flopped out on the sofa with his shirt off idly munching the shrinking stack of squishy chocolates next to the empty pitcher of water on the coffee table. The storm has passed taking the rain and heavy clouds with it, and there's a nice breeze rolling in through the windows. Darkness is just starting to shroud the summer sky as evening moves into night, and whatever programme is on the TV goes unnoticed by the two nations as they sit in comfortable quiet. He watches the blond on the opposite sofa as he types up a rough draft of their trade report, and it's during these quiet moments that Romano realises just how content he really is around the other nation. 

The constant hum of the fans and gentle flow of cool air from outside are making him drowsy, but he loves these types of evenings when it's too warm to actually do anything other than just laze around and doze off, and he can sneak glances at the blond without it seeming too suspicious. It's amazing that England can actually concentrate on working when it's so humid - he’s struggling just to stay conscious in the languid evening heat. 

The only problem with laying around eating sweets all evening is that now he’s kind of thirsty. The pitcher is completely empty save for a few drops, but the blond doesn't seem intent on abandoning his laptop any time soon, and Romano doesn't want to disturb the man while he's working, so he hasn't got much choice than to get up and get something for himself. The sofa is warm from his body heat and the cool air around him is relaxing, but the dryness in his throat is too irritating to ignore, and after a few minutes of reluctantly trying to convince himself to actually move the brunet finally manages to sit up. His looks over at England, but the Brit still fully focused on his work, so he leaves the blond to his laptop, and sluggishly drags himself off the sofa feeling a twang of disappointment. “I'm getting something to drink. Want anything?” There's a small hum in response, but the pale man doesn't look up. The sinking feeling in the Italian's gut grows, but he ignores it and slowly wobbles his way to the kitchen. If the bastard can't even be bothered to answer properly then fuck him.

It's takes a minute to adjust to the change in floor surface, but eventually Romano successfully hobbles into the kitchen and rests the crutches against the island using the counter to balance as he heads for the fridge. The blast of cold air is bliss against his heated skin sending electricity through his body, and he shudders automatically at the sudden drop in temperature. He could stand there for hours just enjoying the feel of the cold air, but that would be really dumb, so he reaches for a bottle of water, and the nearly-empty serving bowl of fruit salad. Not long, maybe only a minute after placing the bottle down on the counter the Italian hears the sound of footsteps walking along the wooden hall towards the toilet. Romano places the bowl down next to the plastic bottle and shuts the fridge. The door closes with a thump, and the temperature around him begins to rise again. He hears the walking again, and automatically plucks two bowls from the drying rack. If England is up and walking around then he might as well prepare a bowl for the blond as well. He can see the tea towel hanging on the handle of the oven, but it's just out of arm's reach, and he honestly can't be bothered, so he opts not to wipe the bowls down - they’re clean, he cleaned them himself, and opens the silverware drawer to grab a serving spoon not really paying attention to the constant heavy walking in the hallway. 

Finished with preparing the snacks the Italian reaches for the cabinet right above his head, but has to stand on his fucking tiptoes to reach the glasses because they just have to be on the top freaking shelf. The air feels cold and electric around him again which is nuts because all the windows and veranda doors are shut, and apart from the tiny little vent by the pantry there’s no ventilation in the room. He places the glass in his hand down on the counter then rubs his arms to try and get the hairs to settle back down, but it's no good his whole body feels static just like when he opened the fridge door a minute ago. He reaches up to grab a second glass (for England, because despite his own surly reputation he is in fact a fucking considerate person) when he feels it. Every nerve in his body is on edge as a shiver runs down his spine. He can feel the Englishman right behind him trying to sneak up on him again. 

A smirk forms on the Italian's lips. He's not going to fall for it a second time. He's half-tempted to not say anything, and just enjoy the feeling of having the blond so close, but England would probably get suspicious if he did that, so forgetting about the glass he twists around to ‘yell’ at the man for trying to sneak up on him again, and maybe if he's lucky he'll make the other nation jump. Ha! That'd be hilarious. What he didn't expect was to turn and see the blond standing on the other side of the room in the doorway. Time freezes, and seconds feel like hours as the brunet stands rooted to his spot by the counter.

“Ah. You caught me. Damn.” The Brit pouts, but Romano’s too fucking confused to say anything. He thought the Englishman was right behind him! What the fuck…? England makes his way toward the Italian by the fridge his naked feet padding softly on the solid tiles as he walks over. He can feel the blond's body heat radiating off the man in waves as he leans in next to the brunet and reaches up towards the cabinet to retrieve the glass for himself. It suddenly dawns on Romano that it couldn't have been England that was behind him, because he would have had to somehow fucking teleported to the other side of the room. Not to mention he would have heard the man walk up behind him as he entered. It doesn't make any sense. He feels sick. He can almost feel the colour drain from his face as he looks up at the Englishman next to him. He rests his elbows on the the counter and grabs the edge of the surface in a vice-like grip to stop his legs from giving out.

“Romano? Are you alright?”

How the hell is he supposed to answer that? He just stands there clinging to the counter trying to come up with some logical answer. There's a huff and he almost jumps right out of his skin when he feels a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry!” There's a pause. “Let's...Get you outside. The fresh air might do you some good. Then when you're up to it you can tell me what happened.” Another pause. “Does that sound alright?” He nods automatically too dumbfounded to do anything else. The veranda doors unlock with a soft click and the blond pushes them open. The stifling air bursts out of the little kitchen through the doors as soon as they are opened and the drop in temperature snaps the frazzled half-nation out of his stupor and back into reality. He’s far too uncomfortable to be left on his own right now, so he watches England’s every move as the blond messes with something just out of view on the deck.

Light floods the garden, and the soothing sound of water can be heard in the distance as the pond pump comes to life. Over the next few minutes the blond heads in and out of the kitchen setting the water and bowls out on the bistro table on the deck, and Romano cautiously makes his way outside trying to decide where to sit while England goes to fetch some blankets from the living room. He just can't wrap his mind around the incident at all. It's got him so fucking freaked he can't even decide if he feels safer with his back to the house or the garden, so he just stands sideways on the veranda arms folded tightly over his chest and hands tucked securely under his arms so he can watch the house and the lawn at the same time until the island nation returns. 

He doesn't have to wait long. The blond pulls out a chair for him and he half-sits, half-falls into it. The Englishman wraps the Italian up tightly in a blanket before sitting himself down on the opposite chair. He's not comfortable having his back to the house, but with the blanket wrapped around him like a shield he feels a bit safer not as exposed, and England is right there, so if anything does try to sneak up behind the Italian hopefully the Brit will see it. He looks up at the blond to see the man staring down at the blanket folded up in his lap. The brunet nudges the other man’s leg gently with his good foot to get his attention and the blond snaps his head up instantly. He gives Romano a small reassuring smile. 

The stars are out and the night air is warm. He can see moths gathering by the pond lights as the water cascades down the artificial waterfall, and occasionally a bat swoops past to eat the tiny mosquitos flitting about above the upper level of the pond. It's a lovely night, and the calming sound of the water helps him to relax. A sudden pop and gurgling noise breaks him from his thoughts, and he almost gives himself whiplash from how quickly he snaps his head up. He leans forward to grab the glass the younger nation has just poured for him, and slides it across the table towards himself trying to ignore his pounding heart. A can of shitty german beer has mysteriously appeared from somewhere - probably when England had gone to get the blankets, and the blond cracks it open with a neutral expression. 

“S-sorry.” He doesn't even know what the hell he's even apologizing for. The brunet just feels like shit.

“No need to apologise. Want to tell me what happened?” Where the hell should he even start? He's got so many questions - some of them he's not even sure he wants answers to. He takes a sip of his water enjoying the cool sensation as it runs down his throat, and tries to think. The bat flies back round again, lower this time, startling the fish in the bottom pool. He can't see them, but he can hear their frantic splashing. The blond doesn't take his eyes away from the Italian for even a second, and with a sigh Romano tries to relay the events of earlier without sounding completely insane. He tells England about going to get a drink, and hearing the footsteps in the hall, and how he thought it had been England going to the toilet, and how it had suddenly gotten cold, even though the kitchen was fucking stifling, and, and the feeling of someone behind him... 

“...I-I thought it was you. Trying t-to scare me again, Bastard! But when I turned around you were on the other side of the room!” He watches the blond's expression silently begging the other man doesn't think he's completely nuts, but this is England; Mr. Hocus Pocus himself. If anyone would believe him it should be him, right? “I-it really freaked me out! I just wanted to get a drink and- Fuck!!” 

“Alright, calm down.” He doesn't even want to admit it, but he knows what happened, and judging from the blond's expression England already knows exactly what the Italian is trying to say, but the words never make it past the brunet’s lips. Trying to tell himself that maybe he'd just imagined it isn't working, because he knows what he felt, and it was fucking real. 

The island nation takes a long drink from his beer and softly holds the can down on his lap. Romano’s own hands slip off the table into his lap.

“Listen, Romano, I'm sorry if I came across as dismissive, but I have to go through this with America from time to time, and it's usually nothing more than his overactive imagination, so I've become quite skeptical of his ‘ghost stories’ over the years. It's not that I don't believe you, I just...It just took me by surprise.”

“...” Fuck, he can't even breathe let alone talk. The material of the blanket is rough against his eyes as he rubs the tears away. “How the fuck do you-do you think I feel?” The tension between them is ridiculous, and once again neither man knows what to say. “It touched me…” Minutes pass like hours and the air is starting to turn cold by the time the blond’s voice finally breaks the silence. 

“Has this happened before? While you've been staying here I mean?” He automatically goes to shake his head, but then remembers the events that took place earlier in the office. The touch had been exactly the same then as in the kitchen. Fuck! That time he'd thought it was England just screwing with him, but what if, what if it wasn't? What if it was the same thing that touched him in the kitchen? The very thought terrifies him, because if that is the case then he really can't deny it. 

“You know, in the office...When…” Ugh. He feels body freeze up at the memory. “-When you fucking scared me, and-” Fuck it. Now he just wants to curl up and die. Just talking about it is making him feel stupid and embarrassed. “...I felt the same thing, but I thought it was you because you suddenly appeared behind me, but, but...” England silently listens, but the brunet doesn't know what else to say. The words just die in his throat.

“I didn't touch you if that's what you were trying to say.” Fuck...He fucking knew it. “You were already on the floor when I got back to the office. I thought it would be funny to try and sneak up on you, and make you jump, but I certainly never touched you-Ah hold on a second. What was that, poppet?” He's freaking out again, but this time at the fucking nutjob sitting across from him. The Tea-Bastard is staring off into empty space having a conversation with no one. He's agitated and tired, but he's too fucking scared to go back inside the house. There's no way he's going to be able to sleep knowing there's...There's a fucking ghost floating around, and England is apparently crazy, unless the bastard is talking to the fucking ghost. He’s not sure which is scarier.

“You said you felt something touch you on the neck? Back in the office?” He’d said something had touched him in the office, but he never said where on his body. What the fuck? He nods, and England gives a nod of his own before reaching for the can of beer.

“That was...one of my fae friends.”

“Fae?” 

“Fairies. They’re mischievous little buggers sometimes. She says sorry for scaring you. It was completely unintentional. In fact she was trying to comfort you. They sometimes forget that not everyone can see them like I can.” Right, fairies, that makes perfect fucking sense. England’s a fucking psycho. He knew before even coming here that the Tea-Bastard is a little nuts with all his supernatural bullshit, but seriously, fairies? The one time he starts to think there’s a nation that maybe isn't a complete asshole, and the bastard turns out to be a fucking lunatic. He’d of believed it if the blond had said it was a ghost. He doesn't like admitting it, but he does believe in them. There’s enough superstitions at his place for the Italian to keep an open mind about it, and Nonno like to visit him and Veneziano from the afterlife from time to time just to check up on them. Ghosts he can deal with...maybe, but he draws a line at fairies, or shit like that. 

England can tell just from his face the brunet doesn't believe him. He doesn't say anything about it though. “You haven't been injured or felt threatened? No scratches or anything like that?” 

“Why, bastard? Are your ‘imaginary friends’ out to get me or something?” The blond rolls his eyes obviously not impressed at the joke. Hesitantly the brunet reaches up to runs his fingers over his neck just to make sure, but thankfully feels nothing out of the ordinary. He hadn't felt threatened or anything at the time either. Just really freaked out about the whole fucking ordeal in general. “No. No scratches or anything.”

“Hm, alright. If that's the case then I really don't think there's any need to be concerned.” The blond doesn't sound entirely convinced, and that's got him fucking nervous.

“Bastard, I thought you said they’re your friends?”

“The fae, yes. I was talking about the ghosts. Chances are the storm just stirred them up, and they're trying to get your attention. The house hasn't been lived in for a while. They're probably just curious.” Which is it, ghosts or fairies? Damn it. This whole conversation is confusing. He should have never said anything. How can the blond be so calm when he's so confused and scared shitless? It’s fucking irritating. Maybe he should be more worried about the crazy bastard sat across from him than the weird shit in his house.

“Listen, I know it must be frightening, and rather unbelievable. Not everyone is as...Used to these kind of things as I am. Sometimes I forget that it's not really what most people would consider, ‘normal’.” His face says it all because the blond is laughing. “For you this is probably completely bizarre, but at my place having a ghost in your house is actually fairly common.” Now he knows the bastard is fucking with him. It's one thing for England himself to be into all that ghostly magic stuff, but for it to be considered normal is too fucking unreal. You don't just see a ghost and be like “oh I just saw a ghost” and then carry on with your day, especially in your own house. Yeah, fuck that. Romano would never feel safe again.

“What about your ‘friends’, bastard? Do I need to be concerned about them?”

“They’re not “out to get you” as you so eloquently put it. As I said the fae are mischievous. They like to pull pranks and move things around, but unless you do something stupid like threaten them, the garden, or myself I very much doubt they will see any need to cause you any deliberate harm.” Right…The blond isn't finished yet though. “The ghosts on the other hand...The ones I know of are all former employees or residents of the house. Some of which I knew personally from many years ago. They’re not an issue. However, just to be on the side of caution I’ll salt the entrance ways and have the fae keep an eye out for any uninvited ‘guests’ as it were. Nothing to panic yourself about.” 

He can't even explain how he feels right now. Numb, and exhausted don't even begin to describe how utterly drained he is. He slumps back in the little metal chair completely deflated. The sudden movement causes the front two legs to lift up slightly before toppling back down onto the wooden decking below. The bat hasn't returned for a while now, and the fish have become silent too. The only sounds he can hear are the constant running water from the pond, and the occasional screech of an owl off in the distance, but right now even that seems to have gone quiet as the gentle night breeze rustles through the hedges making long shadows dance across the lawn. 

They'd been sitting in awkward silence when out of nowhere the Englishman started chuckling away to himself laughing about the look on Romano’s face when the blond had found him in the office. He'd been pissed off about it at first, but the Italian couldn't stop himself from laughing either. After that, they'd spent hours talking and debating about a lot of different topics, and just getting to know each other better. It's gone midnight by the time he's calmed down enough to return to the house, and if it wasn't for England's stupid sense of humour easing the tension the brunet would have probably spent the entire night out on the veranda waiting for the sun to come up.

By two in the morning the nations had relocated themselves back into the living room. England had locked the house up for the night, and the only light filtering into the large room is coming from the little table lamp on the end table by the sofa the blond is leisurely sprawled out on. England’s mobile phone is tucked between his ear and shoulder as he diligently listens to America's annoying tantrum while continuing to type away on his laptop. The exhausted Italian can barely keep his eyes open as he sneaks glances up over the top of the blanket at the Englishman, but can easily make out the sound of America's voice coming through the receiver. He really feels sorry for the poor bastard. There's no way Romano could put up with America's rambling at such an ungodly hour. A deep yawn escapes him as he gives the irritated nation a sympathetic look. “I'm going to sleep. Goodnight, ba-England.” England covers the mouthpiece with his hand as America babbles on, and the smile the blond gives him has the Italian feeling warm all over.

“Goodnight.” More babbling. “Yes, Alfred. I'm still here. No I don't think that would be wise. Well then, don't ask for my opinion if you don't like the answer! No. Forget it.” He can't understand a word of what the American is saying, but from the Englishman's raised tone it's obviously not going well. 

“If you don't want to listen to me then you can bloody well sort it out yourself! What?! You called ME, idiot! You know what, just...do your best I'm sure it'll be fine. Yes that’s right. Goodnight. No, Alfred. I'm tired. If you're that desperate why don't you give Francis a bell? I'm sure he'd love to help you.” Francis? France? Now he's really curious. The North American nation must still be at work since the Tea-Bastard is calling him by his civilian name. 

“Yes lad, I know. Come now, don't be like that. Yes, I'm sure whatever you've come up with will be perfectly acceptable. Yes, alright. I love you too. Try not to be up fretting all night, alright? Goodnight, Alfred.” Before the American can protest anymore England hangs up the call and tosses his phone onto the coffee table with a sigh. The blond scoots down the sofa so he's laying on his side and covers himself with the other blanket, and places the laptop onto the coffee table. “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with his nonsense.”

“Bad news?”

“No, nothing like that. The poor boy is just...Growing up, I suppose.” The melancholy tone in England’s voice as he switches off the lamp is a little depressing, but the Italian can't stop smiling.

“You're such a doting old fart.”

“Shut your trap and go to sleep.” He snuggles the side of his face into the sofa cushion and wraps the blanket tight around his shoulders giving the blond one last look in the darkness of the room before closing his eyes. As he lays there slowly drifting off into sleep he can't help but feel the warmth wash over him. He's not been this content in years. 

“Hey...Eyebrows?” There's a snort and a small choking noise then silence.

“...What is it?”

“...Thanks. F-for staying down here with me.”

“You're welcome. Now go to sleep.”

“...Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.”

He's definitely going to leave something nice behind for the stupid ghosts before he goes back home, and maybe for England’s imaginary friends too (just in case).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long headcanon blurb ahead. Skip this if you're not interested. Skip to the very end of notes for a chance at getting your own request written!
> 
> My headcanon is that nations have a core or heart that is formed initially by the combined ideals and wishes of their people. They later grow bigger by annexing and/or unifying with their neighbors. If nations were only born to represent their current countries as they are then the USA would not have those childhood memories of England or the revolution. Spain would have been roughly the same physical age as Romano during his empire days as well, because it took Aragon well into the 1500s to pull together the Kingdom of Spain finally annexing most of the other various Iberian peoples that also existed in the region at the time. 
> 
> Of course this is just me trying to throw real history at Hetalia logic, but it's what I'm going with in this story. If you're interested in why I chose Naples for South Italy then read on:
> 
> "Romano" is just the name South Italy was given to differentiate him from Veneziano since they are both technically Italy, but being given a name for the sake of convenience seemed really sad to me so I gave it some context. 
> 
> Southern Italy being Romano (“of Rome”) makes little sense, since Rome isn't in southern Italy (it’s in central Italy). So I took it to mean “Rome’s child” instead. The Romans usually handed their titles, names and estates down to the first born son. I imagine Rome following this, and handed his name and city down to Romano, but that still left him without a “heart”, since he is South Italy not central Italy I gave him Naples. 
> 
> Also looking at Romano's personality he has a very fiery, unstable personality with an explosive temper. Vesuvius is an active volcano right by Naples, so that kind of matched . Naples was founded by the Greek settlers in southern Italy who called it Neapolis “new city”. The Romans loved the Greeks a lot (seriously, a lot) and let them inhabit Southern Italy for a long time without much objection pretty much just letting them do want they wanted with the southern region while Rome focused on the north. Which explains why South Italy looks more like Greece than he does Veneziano or Rome, and has an inferiority complex. Naples had a rich economic and cultural centre in the otherwise rather undeveloped region at the time. Many important Roman elites had villas there, even some of the emperors. It’s remained a prominent political city in the southern region ever since, and has been subject to countless invasions, attempted invasions, revolts, and unions with various other provinces and countries over the years.
> 
> There’s a million other reasons why I think Naples suits Romano, Byzantine, the Normans, the Italian wars, it’s importance of the city to the Spanish empire, the kingdom of the two Sicilies...but I'd have to write a book to go into all of it. So yeah, that’s my theory.
> 
> What a chance to get your request written? 
> 
> Answer this question in the comments along with your request: What city do you think - I believe - England’s “heart” is in? It’s not London or York, that’s all I'm saying.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween weekend!
> 
> Warning for this part: Mentions of past dubious content, but relatively SFW.

England prides himself on being a true British gentleman. The physical embodiment of pride and iron-willed determination. There is nothing he cannot achieve if he puts his mind to it, and bollocks if this insufferable heat is going to best him. He didn’t want to be stuck here in this snug little hotel conference room in the middle of York in the first place for the second time in two days. He’s honestly not sure why he is, oh that’s right, because he bloody well has to be, because according to Her Majesty being a Lord means you have to show your face at pointless city council meetings from time to time. Just so your people don’t forget who the bloody fuck you are. He’s never heard such utter tripe. He’s England for Christ’s sake. No one, especially his own people are going to forget about him any time soon. 

Melting over the table like a boneless sack of festering meat the blond is just barely able to stay conscious. The humidity in the stuffy little conference room is unbearable, even with the windows cracked open as far as they will go. The blond had wanted to try and avoid the summer heat this year thus the reason why he’d agreed to play host to Romano in his own country instead of going on his usual summer holiday to Spain’s. Sod’s Law he chose to do so the one year where his own house is experiencing an actual summer all thanks to a freak heat wave. He would have been better off going to Spain’s. It would have been cooler. He’s not the only one struggling with the insane heat in the little box room, but he is the only who can get away with openly showing it. It’s one of the few perks he gets as the motherland. He can sulk like a spoiled brat, and no one dare say anything about it. 

The speaker continues to waffle on about God-knows what (England had lost interest in the speech well over two hours ago), and someone gets up, scraping their chair along the wooden floor as they stand, to pull down the window blinds. Thank God. The blinding sun reflecting off the whiteboard was starting to give him a headache. A presentation begins playing on the wall mounted board at the front of the room, but all he can focus on is how blissful the darkness is to his worn out eyes. 

The room falls into murmuring quiet as various questions in regards to the presentation are directed to the speaker, but truth be told the nation couldn’t be any less interested. The pale blond nestles his nose back into his arm, and silently drifts off into dreamland. It isn’t like anyone is really paying him any mind, so he can’t see that it would be an issue for him to doze off for a little while. As long as no one calls on him during the presentation he’s golden. The low chatter of various people asking questions is surprisingly rather soothing, and quickly lulls the exhausted man into a deep much needed sleep.

The first thing he notices when he regains consciousness is that he’s laying on something soft, and the temperature has finally cooled off a bit. The second thing he notices is that there’s a gentle hand softly ruffling his hair. He suspects France the most likely culprit, but then remembers that the sodding Frog is most likely still at Scotland’s right about now. It takes a few more seconds for his mind to kick into gear, but when it finally does he sluggishly opens his eyes expecting to see Romano’s olive-green eyes frowning down at him.

“Buenas tardes, Inglaterra!” Christ, that idiot’s voice is loud, but he honestly shouldn’t expect any less from a moron like Spain. What other idiot would shout like that at a person who had just woken up? What is the bloody git even doing here in England, let alone York, in the first place? “Inglaterra?”

‘Buenas tardes’...Evening. “Evening.” Evening? Crap. He must have slept for longer than he thought. Why didn’t his alarm wake him? He’d set it for four thirty, so he and Romano could catch an early dinner, and go sightseeing for a bit once the weather had cooled (which is has, Thank God). Well, that plan is out the window now. Speaking of the Italian. Where’s he gone to? He could understand if the brunet had grown bored of waiting for Brit to wake up, and went in search of something more interesting to entertain himself with, but he could have a least let the blond know beforehand, or maybe he did and he’d just forgotten. Probably, that wouldn’t surprise him in the least. He’s terrible for forgetting things if they’re not written down.

Having come back to his senses a little now the shroud of sleep is starting to ware off the Englishman finally remembers the other nation in the room. “Why are you here, Spain?” He’d honestly wanted to spit out something a bit more menacing to his former rival, but the calloused hand softly running through his hair tousling the already messy strands is proving to be a bit of a distraction. Despite his best effort the blond can’t even muster the energy to shake off the annoying Spaniard. Which most certainly has nothing to do with the relaxed feeling spreading through him from the gentle caressing touches. He’s not awake enough yet to really process his surroundings, so he lays there trying to wrap his mind around any possible logical explanation as to why the Spaniard might be here in his country opposed to taking advantage of some poor unsuspecting tourists back in Madrid. He shifts slightly absentmindedly leaning into the soothing sensations as he tries to think, but all he keeps coming back to is that the older nation is an idiot. Hardly an earth-shattering revelation, but justified (in his opinion at least) none the less. 

England racks his brain and slowly begins piecing together the events of the day hoping it would shed some light on how he came to be laying in a hotel room with Spain of all nations doting on him so tenderly. It’s just so peculiar it’s left him feeling overwhelmingly nauseous. He remembers arriving to the hotel a bitchy Romano in tow; agitated by the heat and lack of AC. The Italian hadn't wanted to be left alone in the house all day with nothing to do but watch daytime television after having done exactly that all of yesterday while England had diligently attended the first of the two-day county conference talks. Feeling sorry for the injured brunet England had agreed to allow the half-nation to tag along on the second day provided that he keep quiet and not disrupt the meetings. Romano found himself a little spot in the corner of the conference room by the open window, and began messing with his phone while England pretended to pay attention to the meeting. 

After that he remembers waking up in the dark of the conference room to the sight of Romano’s bemused face staring down at him.The blond’s sudden jolt at their closeness startled the both of them, but after coming back down from the ceiling the brunet explained that he had been trying to check the Englishman’s temperature worried that he may have actually passed out from the humidity. He remembers the event clearly because it had been such an unexpectedly kind gesture it touched the blond in a way. It’s nice to think that another nation (especially one with a temper such as Romano’s own) could actually possess enough natural consideration for others to feel concern for him despite them being almost complete strangers. Then again the two of them have been getting to know each other little by little over the course of the past few days, and truth be told Romano is not unpleasant company when he allows himself to relax and actually enjoy himself. He wouldn’t call them friends by any means, but maybe if things continued to go well between them then...No, he’s not going to jinx it. Life seems to have a funny habit of kicking him in the teeth whenever things start to go well. 

Anyway, Romano aside that still doesn’t answer the question of why Spain suddenly decided to show up out of the blue. Actually, that probably is due to Romano’s presence. The two are dating, and have always been rather inseparable, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that the Iberian would be uncomfortable with his lover spending time at his former rival’s home. So, the only other things he has to try and figure out are how he got from the conference room to a hotel bed, and why Spain is being so oddly gentle towards him. Especially given that they’re not exactly on the best of terms (but are they ever?), and the man’s lover is presumably somewhere nearby. 

England had still been far too tired to drive them home, even after having slept through the entire meeting, so after his midday nap he and Romano had both agreed to rent one of the vacant hotel rooms for the night, and would then head back after breakfast the next day. Right. After arriving to their twin room the Englishman had dropped himself onto the nearest bed leaving Romano to take the one by the window. As soon as his head hit the soft material the blond promptly snuggled himself into the duvet and went right back to sleep. So, at some point after the blond had drifted off for the second time that day Spain had showed up, and presumably Romano (being the only other person with a cardkey) had let the Spaniard into their room. The entire time the Brit had been thinking the gentle touches had not ceased. The rhythmic petting is going to put him straight back to sleep at this rate. The brunet’s nimble fingers repeatedly knead into the blond’s scalp gently easing away his headache. It’s relaxing, but the fact that it’s Spain stops him from being able to drop his guard and enjoy it. 

The Spaniard just looks at the flaked out blond on the bed with a seemingly genuine smile as he continues his ‘assault’ on the Englishman’s head. The Brit knows the Iberian man will employ any kind of backhanded strategy to try and take the younger nation by surprise, but to go out of his way to pretend to be kind to him and hope to lure the other nation into a false sense of security is a rather arbitrary tactic. After their long and bloodied history Spain should know better than to believe England of all nations would be so easily fooled. Then again, the Iberian is stupid enough to purposefully rattle the lion’s cage (despite being warned of the consequences) just to get a reaction. Unfortunately for the brunet in this case England is fair too exhausted to give the older nation anything more than a low groan of annoyance.

Ever so lethargically the pale blond makes a pathetic swipe to stop the other man, but the brunet simply catches his wrist with a small laugh and a cheeky smile that is much too familiar to a certain other’s. Exasperated the island nation lets out an irritated growl and weakly tries to tug his arm free of the nation’s grip. “Spain. Enough. Leave me alone.” 

“What’s the matter? Is my little lion too sleepy to defend himself?” There’s no malice in the other’s words, but they shake him up nonetheless. It’s been centuries since the former empire has called him by that nickname, and he’s not sure how to feel about it right now. Spain has always be mischievous - just like his brother (and England himself to a certain extent), but right now that’s more than the blond can be bothered to deal with. There’s nothing the Spaniard can gain from pretending to be nice to the island nation, so he’s really got no clue what the idiot is playing at. 

“Stop being daft and let go.”

“I will, but you have to promise me something first.” With absolutely no intention of doing whatever Spain has in mind, he growls, and stuffs his face back into the covers to block out the annoying words. His arm is starting to hurt from being twisted back in the other’s grip, but he figures Spain will eventually grow bored and release him, or his arm will go numb to the point where he can no longer feel it, so he doesn’t bother wasting any more energy trying to wriggle free.

“No...”

“¿Qué?”

“I said “no”! Now bugger off! I have no intention of making any kind of deal with you.” His words are muffled by the fabric pressed against his face. The sound of the door opening and closing followed by light movement on the carpet pirks his attention, and Romano’s unmistakable yelling fills his ears silencing any retort the Spaniard may have had. Twisting his neck to look over his shoulder he can see the none-too amused look on the smaller brunet’s face. Spain releases the blond’s wrist, and deciding he’d rather not deal with the Southern Italian’s rage England tries his best to be as inconspicuous as possible as he makes himself comfortable waiting to see what unfolds.

“Roma! Boss did his best, but Grumpy Brows is being difficult!” Said Italian gives both ex-empires a look in turn before rolling his eyes at the Spaniard. 

“Yeah, no shit. I can see that for myself. You feeling okay over there, Sleepy-Bastard?” He graces the other with a grunt not at all pleased with the other’s loud voice.

“He’s got heatstroke, Roma. Don’t shout too much.” That’s rich coming from the man who only earlier was yelling in his ear, but the idiot is probably right in what he’s saying. His head feels like it’s going to explode and his whole body is flushed hot, and Romano’s lack of volume control isn't helping.

“Yeah, I know, Bastard. I'm the one who's had to look after him the entire time.” 

“Ah! That reminds me!” The same calloused fingers that had previously been so gentle are now snagged roughly in his hair pulling his scalp and forcing his head back to expose his throat. He’s sure the gesture is supposed to be intimidating, and it would be if the Spaniard actually had something to slit his throat with, but given that he doesn't the entire display is nothing but a pointless charade. He loves the twisted look in Spain’s eyes when he loses himself to his true nature, even if he’s unsure of what’s suddenly triggered it. There's something beautifully intoxicating about that particular expression, and England always finds him captivated by the dangerously addicting thrill the other’s murderous gaze sends through him. It’s like a shot of adrenaline straight to his veins, and it brings out something dark in him. Something carnal that should probably be left undisturbed. He craves it sometimes late at night when he finds himself alone with nothing but his thoughts and hands to occupy himself. 

Really, the Spaniard has no one to blame but himself for the years he spent bloodied and beaten under the Englishman’s boot. If it weren't for the brunet the younger nation would have never been introduced to such erotic delights and perversions in the first place. France had probably been the root of it all being the first to introduce the younger nation to the unfamiliar world of wealth and prestige, but it had been Spain who had taught the naive nation to sin, to lust, and give in to the primal desires of his flesh. He had been nothing but an innocent boy on the cusp of adulthood still clinging to the strict teachings of the church, and chasing fairy tales through the ancient woodlands he had once called home. He had no desire for treasures, or gold nor grandeur, until he met Spain in all his beautiful decadence. The man was drowning in sinful pleasures, and England couldn't help but succumb to them himself with the aid of the other nation’s guiding hand. The bastard had ruined him. In so many ways. 

Still, now is probably not the appropriate time to revisit such old memories. The older nation has supposedly seen the error of his scandalous ways, and committed himself to a wholesome relationship with the brunet standing by the desk, or so he says. England doesn't believe it. Romano may be important to the former empire, but the Brit doubts anything short of a divine miracle could curb the Spaniard’s lascivious nature.

Speaking of Romano. The easily startled nation is stuck rooted to his spot by the desk seemingly bewildered by his lover’s sudden act of aggression. He’s not the only one. England himself has got no idea why the former empire is suddenly so angry towards him either. “I heard from Francia earlier that Inglaterra has been trying it on with you, Roma.” He what? Alright, well that’s certainly news to him. Bloody France. Romano appears just as shocked as he is which is honestly a relief, because England has gone out of his way to try and make the brunet feel at ease around him (at Spain’s own request, no less), so he’d hate to think the shorter brunet has misinterpreted his intentions and feels the blond is overstepping his personal boundaries.

“The fuck? Why the hell would he say something like that?”

“Roma, he said you told him that Eyebrows has been trying to ‘pick you up’!” Hold on a minute…’Pick him up’? It finally clicks. That perverted tosser! He looks to Romano, and sure enough the fiery Italian looks just as irritated as the blond feels. 

“Bastard, that’s not what I fucking said!”

“It’s okay, Roma. I'm here, so this Erotic Ambassador won't try anything anymore, right,Iinglaterra?” Spain yanks the Englishman’s hair to emphasise his point sending a sharp shooting pain through the blond’s already sore head.

“Bastard I seriously never said that. Well I did, but I didn't mean it like that...Fucking France is just-Fuck, would you let him go already, damn it?” Bloody hell. Romano’s nonsensical ramblings really aren't helping matters at all.

“Get your head out of the bloody gutter. France is being a bloody pillock. What Romano means is that I literally had to pick him up off the landing after he fell down the stairs yesterday.” There’s a small murmur of agreement from Romano, and Spain finally releases the blond’s hair before turning to throw the younger brunet a disappointed pout.

“Roma! You really need to say things like from the start. I thought Mr. Erotic Ambassador had his way with you. I was ready to beat him senseless.” 

“Yes, because that worked out so well for you the last time you tried.”

“Shut up, ‘Brows. No one asked you!”

“Bloody charming.” Their little spat is interrupted by Romano laughing as he hobbles his way to sit down on the other bed. Probably a release of tension. Spain looks utterly perplexed at first, but then starts laughing too, and the Brit finally free of the Spaniard drops his aching head back down onto the pillow. The two brunets talk between themselves for a few minutes in Spanish, and since he is so out of the loop with their conversation anyway England decides to just observe quietly from his spot on the bed. Who knows, if he’s lucky the two might forget he’s even there and disappear on their own, and the Englishman could go back to sleep until the word finally decided to start making sense again. The topic changes to the blond, and how he struggles with the summer humidity, and as upset as he should be that the two are talking about him, and not to him as he lays there - he really can’t be arsed to say anything about it. He leaves the couple to their gossip trying to fathom how he got caught up in all this madness to begin with. Oh, right. France.

“Roma, is Francia here yet?” France is coming? He fucking knew it. It’s like he has a sixth sense when it comes to that blasted Frog being in his territory. He tries to sit up too quickly which proves to be a big mistake. His head starts spinning and he quickly feels nauseous from the vertigo. Spain notices the blond’s discomfort right away and gently eases him back down. He’s not going to get anything out of being nice to him, so the blond honestly can’t see why the older nation would bother. 

“Oh, shit. Yeah, that’s why I came up here. The Pervert-Bastard went straight to the restaurant to reserve a table for dinner. Go eat, I’ll stay up here with the Tea-Bastard.” They might as well invite the rest of the bloody European continent while they're at it, and yet it’s not the sudden mass arrival of nations that had him so anxious, but the distant and uncaring way Romano had just referred to him. It hurt. A lot actually.

“It’s too early for me. You haven't had anything yet though, right? Go meet up with Francia. There’s some things I need to talk about with Inglaterra.” The room goes silent for a moment. The Italian is probably trying to weigh up if it’s safe to leave to the ex-empires alone in a small space after what just transpired only moments ago.

“Fine, but if you break anything, either of you. I’m not paying for it.”

“Of course not, cariño. It’s Inglaterra’s place, so he’ll pay.”

“I’m fucking serious, you bastard, and don’t call me that. It’s fucking gross.” Listening to the pair is like witnessing a verbal tennis match. He’s rather jealous, and a little bitter, but who wouldn’t be in his situation. It’s rather cruel of them to be so lovey-dovey like that when he’s so desperately lonely and love-sick. Thinking about his pathetic one-sided love affair only intensifies his nauseousness tenfold. 

“If you’re quite finished.” Two sets of equally confused green orbs stare at him intently. He hadn’t meant to snap. “Spain, I’m sure whatever it is you wish to speak with me about can wait. Now if the pair of you would kindly clear off. I could use some more rest.” He can’t help but feel a little bit smug at the dumbfounded expressions on the couple’s faces. Romano takes the hint grasping his lover’s arm to pull him from the room, but Spain doesn’t budge. He simply stands there watching the blond.

“Inglaterra-”

“Unless the word is ending whatever it is can wait!” This time the bite in his voice had been intentional. The two brunet’s scurry from the room almost tripping over each other to reach the door, but he feels so ill he can’t even find the scene amusing. His peridot orbs glare daggers at the older ex-empire as he gives the sulking nation one final glance before softly closing the door leaving the blond alone to wallow in his self pity.

The hotel restaurant is unexpectedly busy for so early on a Thursday evening, and although the noise level isn't doing anything to soothe his pounding head the pleasant atmosphere is comforting. The three European nations are seated at a table by the conservatory chatting away happily - actually, he should rephrase that. France is chatting away happily, Romano appears to be extremely uncomfortable, and Spain looks rather irritated. The Italian is flushed red - embarrassed judging by the way he's trying to hide his face behind his hands, and Spain begins to snap at the younger brunet while France takes a sip of his wine. The Englishman can't hear exactly what's being said, but he can tell just from the Iberian’s tone that the older man is not happy. Romano snaps back while France watches on seemingly unbothered by the bizarre event unfolding in front of him. The tense aura surrounding the two brunets is so hostile the younger blond doesn't dare approach. 

Around half-an-hour or so ago England had woken from a brief, but much needed nap. He remembers thinking that perhaps he hadn't been entirely fair to the two southern nations, and after a few minutes of trying to stop his head from spinning he’d decided that he should probably go and apologise. He’d headed to the bathroom to freshen up a bit, put on a brave face (despite still feeling like utter shite), and reluctantly headed downstairs to join the three mediterranean nations for dinner.

That was the plan, however, he doesn't want to just go ahead and invite himself to their table, especially during the middle of a lover’s quarrel, so the blond isn't exactly sure what to do with himself right now. The girl behind the bar calls to him asking the frazzled man if he’s actually going to order anything or if he simply intends to just stand there like a lemon for the rest of the night. Bloody hell. Running a hand through his hair the Brit lets out a heavy sigh and orders a pint. He slumps forwards leaning against the cool wood of the bar, and lets out another small sigh as he waits for the girl to pour his drink. He casts his attention back over to the nation's table watching for a moment trying to figure out what they’re talking about when Spain’s emerald gaze locks with his. His pulse races. The loud sounds of the bustling restaurant fade into the background as his thundering heartbeat fill his ears. He can't look away. He's completely frozen at the shock of having been caught staring. Spain doesn't move, doesn't even blink, he just continues to stare back at the panicked Englishman with an unreadable expression.

It’s only when the blond feels his chest tighten that he remembers to breathe and breaks free of the brunet’s heavy gaze. He grabs his drink, slaps a couple of fivers onto the bar, and thanks the girl as he excuses himself outside trying to make sense of what just happened, and to calm his racing heart. He reaches for the doorframe, and turns back once more. Just to make sure he didn't imagine it, but Spain is smiling, happily chatting away with Romano (who looks less than pleased) as the Frog attempts to chat up a couple of seemingly very uninterested young women on the next table over. The blond’s is more confused than ever as he makes his way through the open door. 

There's a group of men (still boys really - in their early twenties at most) enjoying the nice evening by kicking a ball about on the lawn. A couple of young women are seated at a nearby wooden garden table under an umbrella watching the game. The garden is even more packed than the restaurant, which isn't surprising given how stifling it is in there, and how nice the evening breeze is outside. There isn't a single empty chair, bench, table or even step in sight, so he has to settle for standing by the door leaning on the metal guardrail for support. He can't help but chuckle as a scuffle breaks out between the striker and the goalie. The striker catches the goalie in a headlock sending both men crashing to the ground ripping up the mossy grass in the process. The little ‘fight’ quickly ends up in a full blown dog pile as the other three men join in and wrestle around on the lawn like children as the girls and a few other spectators watch on in amusement. One of the girls rolls her eyes, but the blond can see a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips at the immature display. Her friend takes a sip of her cocktail as a couple of children run past screaming and laughing while spraying each other with water pistols and soaking anyone unlucky enough to be in their path. The Englishman begins to relax thanks to the nice weather, and the reassuring sounds of his people enjoying themselves, but it doesn't last long.

“Hey…” He turns to look in the direction of the familiar voice only to have something freezing cold and wet splash him in the face.

He chokes back a swear, and rubs the now wet strands of hair out of his face taking a moment to glare at his ‘attacker’. “What on Earth did you do that for?”

“You just looked so pathetic standing here all alone like a total loser. I couldn't resist.” Well thanks to the Italian’s little prank he’s gone and dropped is beer in the bushes.

“You’re a total git, Romano. You owe me a pint.”

“Yeah, yeah. Cry me me a river, Bastard.” The sarcastic look on the brunet's face is captivating, and he can't help but be honestly impressed by the Italian’s use of idiom. A lot of his national colloquialisms and sayings seem to confuse the Italian, but then again America uses the phrase quite a bit, so it would make sense for the brunet to have picked it up from him. He’s heard the two get along rather well. More to the point the Brit should have learnt by now not to underestimate the Italian's innate ability to be sarcastic at a moment's notice.

Holding out his hand he makes it plainly obvious he wants the half-nation to pay for his lost beverage, and out of the corner of his eye something shiny over by the side of the building catches his attention. A green garden hose hung up on the corner of the wall. He would have missed it if the sun hadn't been shining on it. He bites back his smirk not wanting to give the brunet any clues to the devious plot of revenge he’s putting together, and turns back to face Romano. The older nation looks baffled and then disbelieving, but eventually he stuffs his hand into his trouser pocket to grab his wallet while muttering under his breath.

“You’re the one being a ‘total git’.” It takes him aback for a second to have one of his own insults thrown back at him, but he’s also a little impressed. The brunet hands him a couple of paper notes, smirking, obviously feeling proud of himself for his witty comeback. Unfortunately for the Italian England is not about to let the brunet get away with it, or with throwing a glass of water in his face either for that matter.

“It doesn't work that way I'm afraid.” That’s all the warning the poor Italian is going to get. An elderly couple pushes their way out the door, and the two men move aside to allow them to pass as do the two burly bikers currently sat on the steps listening in on their conversation while downing their beers.

“What? Why the fuck not? You-”. 

“Oi, watch your language! There’s kids about.” There’s a hurried ‘sorry!’, and the brunet goes meek not bothering to finish his complaint. Well at least no one else seems to have heard him. “Your friend's got a right mouth on him.” He gives the pair a smile and a small apology of his own, and they go back to pretending to mind their own business. 

He can tell Romano is in a bad mood now just from the way the brunet is chewing on his lip and twiddling his fingers, so he tries to carry on as if nothing happened hoping the Italian will come back out of his shell. “You can't call someone a git if you’re the one at fault unless the other person is being completely unreasonable. It’s different to how you just casually call everyone a bastard.” He gives the Italian a cheeky grin as the two bikers eye their fellow Englishman in annoyance. The Italian looks completely confused, but then smiles. “There are rules. Depending on the situation, circumstances and parties involved. Different terms are applied to suit.” Silence.

“That's fu...seriously, bullsh...stupid. That’s seriously stupid.”

He can't help but laugh as the brunet fumbles over his words. “Very eloquent. Colour me impressed.” The Italian glares daggers at him and puffs out his cheeks, and the blond has to fight the urge not to poke the already irritated brunet and risk upsetting him further, but it’s just so tempting…”Do you think you can stay out of trouble long enough for me to get a new drink?” He understands now why Spain enjoys teasing the Italian the way he does. Watching Romano’s explosive reactions is addictive. He pushes himself away from the railing slowly, but the Italian calls out to him to wait a minute.

“Hey hold on.” The brunet roots around in his wallet again and hands the Brit a couple more notes. “Get me something too.” 

“Alright. Anything in particular?”

“Whatever’s fine, just not beer.”

“Not beer...Got it. If I'm not back in twenty minutes send out the search and rescue.”

“You're only going to get drinks, ba-Stupid. Don't be so over-dramatic.”

“Might as well be. It’s packed in there, and something tells me the bartender isn’t going to be too happy when I try to pay for our drinks with Euros.” 

“Shit. I didn't think about that. Hold on. Give me the money back. I'll get them.”

“Alright…? You’re going to need to explain I'm afraid.” He hands the stack of notes back to the brunet.

“Think about it. It’s going to look pretty weird if you pay with Euros in your own stupid country, but it wouldn't be weird for an ‘Italian tourist’ to have Euros, right?”

“I don't think that’s the issue, but fine. Better you than me.” He decides to ignore the fact that the brunet just called his country stupid. For now.

“Oh my god. Shut up. I'm not going to fu-die.” Romano slowly hobbles his way back into the crowded restaurant mumbling something in Italian as he goes leaving the blond to himself. He waits a couple of minutes before heading to the door himself to make sure the brunet is well and truly out of sight before literally jumping into action. He clears the railing and the bushes with ease, and lands none-too-gracefully on the soft grass below almost face first. Bloody hell he’s out of practise, but he doesn't have any time to waste. He grabs the nozzle in one hand and turns on the tap with the other giving the trigger an experimental squeeze to make sure it actually works. Which it does. The blond hooks the nozzle over the metal guardrail before climbing back over it positioning himself so the hose is well and truly hidden behind his back, but still in easy reach. The two bikers watch him with bemused interest.

Romano is going to be furious, but as America can testify the Englishman will not be outdone when it comes to pranks. He’s so excited he can't stop himself from smiling. Every now and then he remembers to squeeze the trigger to release some water onto the grass so the pressure doesn't build too much. The last thing he wants is to ruin his own prank by having the hose over-pressurise and burst off the tap.

The group of youngsters, and the children from earlier are nowhere in site which is just as well because he’s sure the Italian won't be able to contain his language once the blond sets the hose on him. Now all there is to do is wait. The two bikers - Jim and Darren, wish him luck, and take their leave as soon as their their wives arrive. He begins to question his plan. It’s rather chilly in the shade of the hotel - he doesn't want the Italian to get sick, after all the brunet has already hurt his leg while staying with the blond, even if he hadn't been present at the time he still feels somewhat responsible. Then there’s Spain to consider. He honestly never knows how to read the other nation. He could be really pissed with the Englishman, or he could find the whole thing hilarious. The blond really can't be sure how the older nation will react.

Spraying the Italian with the hose may be a tad extreme, but there's a familiar, somewhat arrogant, voice in the back of his mind telling him that the Italian deserves what’s coming to him. Who does that weakling think he is calling THE Great British Empire stupid?! A second, more effeminate voice chimes in assuring the blond that Romano absolutely, positively, super-duper doubly-does, deserve it, and the blond shouldn't feel at all in the least bit guilty about having a little bit of harmless fun. He’s inclined to agree, after all, no one gets the best of him without some kind of retribution, but he can't shake the wave of guilt that washes over him at the thought of what he’s possibly about to do. It is a little over the top when you really think about it…Not at all, what’s the worst that could happen?...Well the brunet could get sick...Highly doubtful...Or he may end up getting hurt. He’s on crutches after all, and could fall quite easily...Unlikely, but there’s a chance...And he will most definitely, without a shadow of a doubt be absolutely furious...Oh, boo. That’s not really an issue, is it? Romano’s positively adorable when he’s being huffy….Well, yes he is, but that’s hardly the point. 

The sound of the door opening breaks his mental conflict, and he’s honestly not ready! There’s footsteps, and the blond breathes a sigh of relief. Not Romano. He would have heard the crutches. Speaking of which, it had been a little careless on his part to forget about the brunet’s injury. How is the Italian supposed to manage their drinks while balancing the crutches? Bollocks. He hadn't thought that through at all, had he? Well, neither had the Italian, but that didn't make him any less uneasy about the situation. He receives his answer when Spain's familiar mop of messy brown curls comes into view through the doorway. He has no reservations about socking the irritating mediterranean nation with the hose (he squeezes the trigger releasing another jet of water into the bushes below), save for one. His new beer is on the tray the Spaniard is holding. 

Damn.

He resists spraying the brunet anyway, and heads down the steps to switch off the tap. The excitement is gone, and now the whole scenario just seems rather childish. He passes Spain - who gives him a curious glance on his way back up .

“Watering the flowers? I don't think you need to bother. They have people for that, I'm sure!” He ignores the ridiculous comment, and the broken English (the brunet is far more fluent in his language than that. He’s just being a tosser), and takes his glass from the other nation. He can't help but wonder what's happened to the other brunet though. It’s unlikely he would be willing to be alone with France of all nations for too long, so he’s probably on his way, or even in the loo. Whatever the reason, England just hopes the Italian will return soon. He doesn't want to be left alone with Spain any longer than absolutely necessary, especially not if France is somewhere nearby. 

“While we have a minute. I really do need to talk to you about some things.” The southern nation joins him leaning on the guardrail. His famous smile slips slightly as he looks the blond in the eyes. Well this can't be good.

“Go on then.”

“You remember at the meeting last month?”

“Of course. What about it?” 

“Well after I told everyone about...me and Lovi-”

“-Lovino and I.” 

“Shut up and let me finish, Eyebrows!” He rolls his eyes at the bloody tosser, but let’s the man continue.

“I heard from Francis about what happened with Ludwig.” Right, so that’s it. He really hadn't wanted to think about that again. 

“And…?” 

“Well after I told everyone about Lovi and I-”

“-Much better, carry on.” There’s a huff, and the brunet smacks him on the arm.

“Ludwig came to give his blessings which was very unexpected, but very cute! He’s such a good boy-”

“Antonio, can we please get straight to the point?” The Spaniard simply smiles.

“I do love the way you say my name.” That was rather unexpected.

“Stop blathering on, and get to it!”

“This is why you have no friends, Eyebrows!”

“Stop calling me that ridiculous nickname, you insufferable simpleton! And not that it’s any of your business, but I will have you know I have plenty of friends!” The smirk on the Spaniard’s face is ridiculously smug, and beyond irritating. He should have soaked him with the hose after all.

“Oh, yeah? Who? Your ‘fairies’? The invisible ones that only you can see?” He really wants to punch the fucking idiot square in the jaw.

“As a matter of fact yes. As well as others.” 

“Such as?” His face must be red by now with how much his blood is boiling. This is why he hates spending time with the sunny nation. They can't even have a simple conversation without trying to rile each other up. They attempted to improve their relations in the interest of their countries by England staying with Spain for a couple of weeks in the summer for his holiday. In return the blond would play host to the other nation during the autumn before the weather got too cold for the Iberian, and he crawled back to his ‘pit’ (That was rather unfair. Spain’s home is admittedly quite lovely) to hide away for the winter.

“That-That is...It’s none of your bloody business. Just get back to the point already!” He hates the look of victory on the other nation’s face. Bloody twat.

“Poor little Arturo. Always so lonely.”

“I swear, Antonio, if you don't shut your bloody mouth right this insta-”

“Geez. Calm down. What’s with you, hombre? You’re really tense. More than usual.” No surprise there really. Still, the idiot is right. He has been rather tense as of late. The situation at the meeting last month-

“Antonio, what was it you wanted to say? About last month’s meeting?”

“Oh, right. So after the meeting finished I talked with Ludwig, and he asked all sorts of questions about how I deal with Lovi’s temper, and things like that. I’m not sure why he wanted to know so badly, but I told him anyway, since he asked -” He’s going to go mad if the brunet doesn't hurry up. “- So I told him it's super easy, because I love him so much! After that I guess is when-”

“Yes, I was there. Moving swiftly on.”

“Francis said that little Ludwig has been calling him every day since then. Asking him loads of questions about what he should do now, and something about not repeating previous mistakes, but I'm a little confused on that last bit.” Bollocks. He hadn't expected the sodding kraut to bother France with all of this, but that’s hardly his problem. Just like he told the Frog yesterday on the phone. He’s still completely clueless as to why he’s speaking with the Spanish nation about it now though. The brunet obviously has something he wants to say about the whole fiasco.

“Antonio, what is it, exactly, that you want?”

“You know, little Feli has liked Ludwig for a really long time. A really, really long time according to Francis, so-.” No, he was not aware of that. Bollocks. Could this get anymore complicated?

“-You want my cooperation in trying to get them together, is that it?” Laughing. The bloody twat is laughing at him! If that isn't it then what the bloody hell does the git want? 

“Nope! Don't be silly. You’re the last person I would go to for such a thing! We just need you to stay out of the way while me and Francis fix everything.” Right. He should have honestly expected that. If Northern Italy really does like Germany as much as France apparently believes then of course Spain and the Frog wouldn't want him getting in the way. Bugger.

“That may be a tad difficult.” Spain’s happy façade slips immediately, and he finds himself on the receiving end of a particularly deadly glare. “I already told him...I may be interested.” He waits for the inevitable explosion of angry swears, but nothing happens. Spain simply sighs and drops his head down onto his hands gripping the guardrail.

“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” 

“Well, excuse me, had I have had this information a little sooner-” 

“Damn it, Tomato-Bastard. Come here and hold the fucking door!” Romano’s shout makes the both of them jump.

“I’ll figure something out. It’ll probably look rather odd if I just cancel out of the blue right now, but I’ll sort it. Somehow or another.” It’s not as if he’s particularly looking forward to going to dinner with Germany. He just had...No real reason to say no to the man. Politics aside he has no quarrel with the Germanic nation, and he’s always come across as diligent and dependable. Not that it matters now of course.

“Antonio, you bastard. I know you can hear me, fucker.” So much for keeping a cap on his cursing. Romano is honestly completely hopeless.

“...Ludwig…” Something flickers across the Spaniard’s face for a second before his expression and tone both change to something much colder and more murderous. An expression he knows too well by now. “Little Feli is very important to me, do you understand? If...If he gets hurt I will kill you.” He doesn't doubt it. The look in the brunet’s emerald eyes is ferocious. It’s not like Spain to be so direct with his threats. He prefers to toy with his victims. He’s going to have to sit down and really work this all out. “I also still need to talk to you about mi hermano, but that can wait for later when we have more time.” Portugal? Of course, he shouldn't be surprised. What the bloody hell has he gone and done now? It must be important if Spain feels the need to include him in it. He gives the brunet a firm nod, and the dark man gives the Englishman one last glare before putting on his signature smile, and bounces away to hold the door for his struggling Italian.

Thank God the Spaniard had given him his drink before dumping all this on him. He bloody needs it now.

France follows the Italian through the door holding a tray of desserts and fruit cocktails. Spain is there in an instant to help ‘lighten the load’, and grabs himself a glass and bowl of something. The Frog squeezes past the frazzled Englishman to find a table down on the lawn, and he gets preoccupied thinking about how he’s supposed to deal with the chaos he’d unknowingly gotten himself involved with.

“Damn it, Bastard. Help me down the steps, I can't get down.” He looks up, ready to help the injured nation, but of course, Romano is talking to Spain. The older brunet laughs, and picks the Italian up easily carrying the startled half-nation down the steps bridal-style all the way to the wooden garden table. Romano had dropped his crutches in the midst of struggling to free himself from the Spaniard, so England grabs them, and begrudgingly joins the three Europeans at the table. Just long enough to finish his beer. He’s really not in the mood for anymore false pleasantries, and France and Spain wear him out at the best of times as it is.

He should be more cautious with how he approaches Romano from now on. If Spain is so close with Northern Italy that he would openly threaten the Englishman’s life then God only knows what the Iberian would do if he accidentally upset the man’s lover. Romano may not be the most helpful when it comes to contributing to reports (neither is his brother), but England had found himself enjoying the fiery brunet’s company quite a bit over the last couple of days. It would probably be best not to get too close to the Italian. Pushing the limit of Spain’s patients has always been a hobby of his, but it’s a very thin line, and as much as he enjoys irritating the seemly perpetually happy brunet there are some lines that you just do not cross. Not that the tosser had cared about any of that when he’d helped America leave him. 

“What’s the matter, Mon Ange?” 

“Nothing.”

“You’re not eating your ice cream, Cher.” He hadn't even noticed it. Vanilla with chocolate syrup, sprinkles and nuts. Bloody frog. He takes the spoon and makes a show of taking a large scoop and eating it.

“There. Now will you shut it? I'm thinking.”

“Cheri, you are always thinking. It will not kill you to live in the moment and enjoy yourself for once.” He rolls his eyes, but the Frog is feeling particularly argumentative today as he frowns back at the Brit from across the table. Romano sits silently eating his cake as England does his best not to yell at the sodding Frenchman. He has a lot to think about, and not a lot of bloody time to do it. 

“Where’s Antonio?”

“Mon Amor went to go find something to use as a goal. He thought a little game of football might cheer you up. You've been terribly moody as of late, mon lapin.” That is the very last thing he wants to be doing right now. He finishes the last of his beer, and gets up from the table. Fixing this dilemma with Germany needs to be his utmost priority. There’s no time for “living in the moment” as the Frog had put it. He may joke about it, but he really doesn't want to fight with Spain if he can help it. Those days are long gone. He saw no hesitation in the man’s eyes as he promised to kill him. So much for improving their relations. The git still wants him dead.

“Where are you going, mon cher?” 

“To the loo.” He makes his way back to the hotel. He needs to figure out his next course of action. There’s no chance he’ll be able to relax until he has a proper plan in place. Bollocks. This why he bloody well hates Europe. Everyone is always in everyone else’s business.

~~~

“Where’s Arturo?” Arturo? That’s England’s name? It suits the blond really well. Huh. Arturo. He bites his lip to stop himself from smiling. Now he just needs to find out the Tea-Bastard’s last name. At least he can talk to the blond in public now without trying to avoid addressing him.

“He went to the bathroom.”

“Bastard, that was an hour ago. He’s not coming back down.” 

“I know, Cher.” If he knows then why fucking say the other blond was in the bathroom? Unless “went to the bathroom” is nation-code for “he fucked off somewhere”. That would make sense. It apparently is, because Spain doesn't bother to ask what's taking the blond so long.

“What the hell took you, Tomato-Bastard?” 

“I had to take a phone call. Arturo didn't eat his ice cream?” France had mentioned that earlier too. He knows the blond likes sweets, but is it really that big of a deal?

“Non.” Spain looks pretty shocked about it, and the Pervert-Beard looks pretty pissed off. Whatever the older brunet had said to the island nation before he and France got outside must have really angered the blond for him to storm off. He knew it was a bad idea to leave the two ex-empires alone, but Spain had insisted he needed to talk to England about something, and France had been too busy trying to translate the dessert menu for the confused Italian to say anything about it.

Damn it. Does that mean the bastard is going to be in a shit mood all night now? He doesn't want to have to deal with the Englishman if that’s the case. Fucking Tomato-Bastard. Why did he have to go and piss the island nation off? He’d wanted to ask the blond about some of the local history. He’s not really that interested in it, but it would have been a good topic to get the blond to open up and talk about himself, but Spain has probably gone and fucked up any chance of England wanting to talk now. Fucker. He knew the brunet was going to be a pain in the ass.

“Did he say anything?” France shakes his head at Spain’s question, but he’s got no clue what the two old bastards are talking about. 

“Mon Cher has been rather stressed since then. I hope you didn't do anything to make it worse?” His ‘boss’ just looks away shoving a forkful of cake into his mouth. He fucking well did do something. That ass. He’s more interested in what the Pervert-Beard had said though. England’s been stressed? He hadn't seemed like it. If anything Romano would have said the blond seemed pretty relaxed the last couple of days. There had been a couple of times where the island nation had lost his temper, but nothing that would have made the Italian think he’s stressed out. He’d been pretty calm yesterday, despite the brunet freaking out after accidentally throwing himself down the stairs. They’d enjoyed a really nice evening just talking in the garden after working on the report all day, and England had even dozed off on the lawn in the evening sun with a cute little smile on his face.

“He was planning on going.” The table goes silent as Spain has another bite of cake. France is very carefully thinking about what he’s going to say next, and the Italian just sits there completely lost with the conversation. It’s annoying how the two bastards are just talking to each other like he’s not even there, but it sounds kind of important, so he doesn't want to interrupt.

“And you talked him out of it.”

“I just told him not to get in the way.” Wait, what? Get in the way of what? There’s a heavy sigh, and France finishes the last of his cocktail. He’s completely fucking confused, but it sounds like the bastards are involved in something pretty fucking shady if Spain and France are worried about the island nation getting in the way of whatever it is.

“That is exactly why I told you not to get involved.” Damn it. The atmosphere between the two is getting pretty fucking tense, and he’s stuck in the middle of it.

“Don't blame me, hombre! It’s Arturo’s fault-”

“Non! Don't do that. Do not try to blame this on Mon Ange.” France is actually glaring at his “best friend” now, and Spain just looks uninterested as he knocks some crumbs around on the plate with the fork. Seriously what the fuck is going on? If the bastards are involved in some deep shit he doesn't want any fucking part in it. He’s got enough problems.

“Lovi, if you had to pick who would you choose, Arturo or your brother?” Err, what? What the fuck? He automatically goes to say his brother, but he’s not sure what the hell is going on. For all he knows it could be some kind of hit man contract.

“I don't know, Bastard. What are you talking about?”

“Amor, that is quite en-”

“Lovi, just answer the question. Arturo or Feli?” He really doesn't want to answer, but Spain is frowning at him, and France looks like he’s about ready to murder the fucking Tomato-Bastard if this doesn't end soon.

“I don't know, damn it! Why are you asking me? I don't even know what you bastards are even talking about. Don't drag me into it. Fuck!” Another sigh. 

“Ludwig...Germany-” The Frenchman says quietly. “-Seems to have his eyes on my little master, and Mon Amor has been trying to get your brother to confess, so it’s become a little complicated.” Well, fuck. The fucking Potato-Bastard likes England? What the fuck? There’s no way he wants that muscle-brained asshole anywhere near the Tea-Bastard, but he also doesn't want him getting near Veneziano either. Fuck...Now he understands what Spain was talking about, choosing England or his brother. Damn it. “It seems Mon Cher may be interested in little Ludwig too.” Spain scoffs obviously pissed off by the statement. France sends another heated glare towards the Tomato-Bastard, but the conversation drops, and after a while of tense silent the Pervert-Beard slips away to check on the missing blond.

He knows his brother loves the Potato-Eater. It’s pretty obvious, but he really doesn't want the fucking bastard anywhere near the little idiot (or England). Why the fuck do Germans have to be such fucking assholes? All they do is fuck shit up, and cause trouble for his ‘family’. He doesn't want the idiot to be unhappy though, and if his brother is with the Potato-Bastard then he wouldn't have to worry about him chasing after England. Fuck, he should just kill the fucker then he wouldn't have to worry at all. If only. 

He spends the rest of the night agonising over it. England or his brother? Which one would he rather dump the Potato-Bastard on? Every time he thinks about it he keeps coming back to just killing the fucker, because he really doesn't want to have to fucking choose. It should be any easy choice. Veneziano is his brother. There’s no way he wants to see him end up with the Macho-Potato, but the moron really loves the bastard, and he should want his brother’s happiness more than anything else, but fuck. It’s the Potato-Bastard. He also wants to improve his relations with the Tea-Bastard, but if the English nation ends up with the Macho-Potato then there’s a fucking good chance Romano would have to put up with seeing the fucker too, and he doesn't want that. No way in hell.

Spain is fast asleep on the other twin bed by the window. How fucking nice for him. It’s already two in the fucking morning-Wait. Oh, he’s got a text from the Pervert-Beard. What does that fucker want? He opens the message, and nearly drops his phone, because of the bright light shining from the little screen.

_Romano, Big brother really needs to speak to Angleterre, but he is being stubborn. Can you please keep Cher Espagne busy tomorrow while I try to fix this mess?_

Damn it. He really doesn't want to get fucking involved.

_No way, Bastard. Don't drag me into it._

There’s a ping and another message. The bastard’s still awake?

 _Ah, you are awake! Bon._  
_S'il vous plait, Romano! I really don't want Angleterre to get hurt because of this._

Another message.

_I should not have let Cher Espagne talk to him. Mon Cher has been extremely upset since this afternoon. _  
_He looked so happy when we all ate breakfast in the garden! It’s been so long since I have seen him smile like that._ __

____

____

What the fuck does the Bearded-Bastard expect him to do about it? He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't bother to answer, but now he’s even more troubled than before. Damn it. Fucking Potato-Bastard. What the fuck? He goes as far as to fucking propose to Veneziano, and now he’s after England? Asshole! It’s Vene’s fucking fault too for being so oblivious all the damn time. If he’d realised his own feelings back then he and the fucking Potato-Eater would probably have run off and gotten married by now, and he wouldn't be here stuck in the middle of all this shit. Fuck. 

“Fucking damn it!”

“Roma?”

“....” He shines his phone over at Spain, but the man still has his back turned to him. “....” He’s so fucking pissed off right now. Not just at Spain, but at France, and the Potato-Bastard, and his brother, but mostly Spain.

“Are you still mad at me?” No freaking shit. “Roma…I'm sorry.”

“What do you want me to say, Bastard? I'm so fucking pissed. Trying to hook my brother up with the Potato-Bastard behind my back…”

Spain sighs and finally turns to face him. “But you know why I did it, right?” Worrying about his idiot brother is stressing him out, but he’s more hurt over the fact that Spain had been keeping secrets from him. “Veneziano’s liked Germany for a really long time.” He needs to just calm down and take a step back. Let things cool off, and get back to normal, or as normal as possible, damn it. He needs to focus on keeping the fucking German-Potato away from his brother.

“I can't believe you’d kept something like this from me. He’s my fucking brother.” There’s a quiet ‘I know. I'm sorry’, but he’s still angry. The only reason Spain didn't tell him is because the Tomato-Bastard knew he wouldn't like it. He loves his brother. He does. Deep down, and he wants him to be happy, but just not with the Potato-Bastard. Romano is the oldest, the head of their family, the protector - he won't let his family be hurt. Not again. Never again. Not by those bastard Germans. Not by anyone.

“Roma…”

“What?”

“I really am sorry. Please forgive me.” Forgiving the bastard for trying to set the Macho-Potato up with his brother is easy. Forgiving him for keeping secrets is a lot fucking harder. They've never done that, or he hasn't. Not once, but has Spain? He never believed so in the past, but he doesn't know now. Even when the fucking Potato-Bastard had occupied his country, and he’d gone running to Spain for help. Spain had told him straight. He was struggling too, and couldn't help, but he was praying for him (and Veneziano) everyday, and that was enough, because the bastard was honest. He didn't promise them troops that would never come, or aid that didn't exist. It was enough, because it was the truth, and Romano had no false expectations. He never did with Spain. He didn't ever break his promises. Every time Spain went away he swore to Romano he would return, and he did - battered and broken most of the time, but he always came back. Not like Nonno. His belief in the Tomato-Bastard had always been his pillar of strength, but now he’s shaken.

“Roma…”

“...I fucking hate you.” Spain says nothing. The air is silent. For the first time in centuries he feels really unsettled. He hears movement, and suddenly Spain embraces him. Throws himself down on the bed and presses his forehead against Romano’s back.

“You’re my most precious henchman. Roma, please don't-” The words stop, and Spain sniffles. “I'm supposed to be your Boss, and I let you down. I'm sorry. I'm really very sorry. I love Veneziano, but you’re my number one, Roma. Forever and always. I promise.” Damn it, w-what the hell is he supposed to say to that? He starts crying, and Spain continues to cuddle him.

“Yo-You better fucking-g promise me, Bastard. N-no more secrets?”

“No more secrets. I promise.”

“Promise on your stupid, pathetic life.” There’s a choked out laugh, and Spain squeezes him.

“I promise. No more secrets. I swear on my ‘stupid, pathetic life’ that I won't ever keep anything from you again, ever, so don't keep anything from me either, and keep believing in me, okey?”

“I never fucking have, you stupid bastard.”

“Roma…Please.”

“I-I'll try. I'm not promising you anything, Bastard.” The room goes quiet again. He’s suddenly reminded of back when he was a child. When he’d first started living with Spain, and all the fights, and tears and arguments the two nations would have. He lets out a bitter laugh. They’ve come a long way since then, and now here they are almost right back where they started. He wants to keep trusting Spain. The moron is important to him, but he’s never been good at trusting, or having hope, and yet the bastard is always there. 

A strangled groan escapes as the other nation suddenly flops down on top of him laughing. 

“You’re so warm it's making me sleepy.”

“Don't fucking fall asleep here!”

“I'm tired, Roma! I'm going to sleep!”

“The hell you are! Go back to your own bed, fucker! Damn it Spain stop being a fucking moron! Your fat ass is taking all the room.” There’s a gasp, and Spain slaps the Italian's ass.

“You’re so rude! I don't understand how you get girls with a mouth like that! At least my butt doesn't jiggle like yours!...” The sudden silence is making him nervous. “...You’re so adorably squishy, Roma, I just wanna squeeze you!” Oh God no. Fuck! No!

“Fuck, S-Spain, no! Fuck-fucking stop, damn you!” He can't stop laughing as the bastard continues his relentless ‘tickle attack’. He fucking hates it when the bastard treats him like a kid like this, because he’s a grown man now, damn it, but, but it’s not so bad every now and then. The bastard eventually halts his attack, and gives the exhausted Italian a chance to breathe while the older nation snuggles down on top of the blanket. He’s still not okay with the fact that Spain had been keeping secrets from him, but it’s Spain. He doesn't want to lose his ‘boss’, especially not over the fucking Potato-Bastard.

It takes a couple more hours, and the sun has already started to rise, but the Italian does eventually feel himself starting to doze off, and Spain is already fast asleep. The Italian drags his ass to the unoccupied bed, falling on top of it with a thud, and pulls the curtains shut remembering France’s request to keep Spain busy. 

Tomorrow is going to be fucking hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments make the author happy. :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! The next chapter is here! Sorry it's late again. I'm afraid updates will be bi-weekly (every two weeks instead of every week) from now on. I'm just too busy for weekly updates at the moment. 
> 
> Warning for this part: None

Three days have passed since Spain and France had suddenly turned up in York. Three long and tiring days, and he’s still no closer to figuring out what to do about this situation with the Tomato-Bastard. He obviously wants to talk to England about something, but every time it seems like he’s going to do it the moron chickens out. At first it had been kind of funny watching the usually confident and happy Spain act all hesitant and fidgety, but now it’s just making the Italian frustrated and anxious. He spent all of yesterday speculating over the possible reasons for the older nation’s weird behaviour with an equally clueless France, but they came up with nothing. When Romano laid down for a siesta Saturday afternoon after France had gone home (finally; he’s sick of seeing the bastard) he realised he actually didn't want to know the reason at all. Just in case his speculation is right.

It’s not the first time he’s considered the possibility that the Tomato-Bastard might like England, but he’d dismissed the idea thinking it was completely insane, but after thinking about it more the possibility he’s actually right suddenly seemed to make a shittone of sense. After hearing about how the fucking Potato-Bastard had asked the island nation out to dinner Spain’s sudden desire to set Veneziano up with the Macho-Potato suddenly made sense too. Spain claims he’s doing it Veneziano’s happiness, because he’s always loved the little idiot, (but not as much as Romano, of course! - Yeah right.) but he can’t help but wonder if Spain really has an ulterior motive in trying to get the two idiots together. The Tea-Bastard seems surprisingly popular for a guy with terrible fashion sense and hideous eyebrows, even he-, fuck, even France is protective of him, so it would make sense for Spain to want to ‘get rid of the competition’. Setting the Potato-Bastard up with Veneziano would be a perfect way to do it. His brother would be happy, and the Brit would suddenly be conveniently available since the Potato-Bastard wouldn't be chasing after him anymore. It still weirds him out imagining Spain with England - a lot, but he can't ignore the facts.

At first there was the weird concerned comments about the blond’s bad health on the phone. Then finding out that Spain willingly lets the other nation stay at his place in the summer, (and plays nurse to the blond when he gets himself sick every year) despite always being really overworked due to the manic tourism season. Add that together with the moron’s weird behaviour around the blond former empire the last few days, and it all looks fucking suspicious. He really can't believe he never noticed any of this before (well, he did, but he didn't think anything of it). He’s honestly proud of himself for working it all out, but he can't shake the sick feeling in his stomach every time he thinks about it. The part that sickens him the most isn't that Spain hasn't said anything to him about it (even though that's fucking annoying all on it’s own), or even the idea of his idiot brother ending up with the Potato-Bastard. It’s the fact that the Italian can't help but notice just how fucking good the two former pirate bastards look together, and Spain can call himself a fucking conquistador; working for his king, and doing God’s work (as if they hadn't had enough of that during the crusades. Not that he can fucking talk, che) all he likes, but the truth is he was a fucking pirate no different to the Tea-Bastard. The fuckers really are a perfect match.

Spain’s dark caramel skin contrasts amazingly against the blond’s fair porcelain flesh, and the older brunet’s happy go-lucky personality balances well with England’s often stormy temper. They were both strong and powerful empires well matched on the battlefield as either enemies or allies. They have a long intertwined history, and they’ve both left their mark on the other in some way or another. Spain just laughs off England’s aggressive shouts that scare Romano shitless, and the ass teases the poor bastard every chance he gets. Making the blond’s cheeks flush a soft shade of pink that reminds Romano of the beautifully delicate cherry blossoms he once saw at Japan’s place. England purposefully riles Spain up too. Constantly goading his older rival into petty arguments by picking at his current economic turmoil. Romano knows all too well just how much the Tomato-Bastard hates being reminded of his fallen empire, or the loss of his wealth and status (having accidentally pushed the bastard too far once himself), so the fact that he just glares and rolls his eyes at the provocations instead of snapping and throwing punches at the blond like the Italian had expected him to is fucking unbelievable. 

Seeing the two former empires argue like children is nothing new. He’s witnessed countless fights between them over the years - he’s used to it. What he can't get used to is this fucking weird, hesitant, fucking shy behaviour his former boss has suddenly developed around the Brit. He’d tried to ask about it when the two brunets had left church earlier that morning, but he hadn't known what to say. The whole situation was getting so fucking frustrating Romano had wanted to strangle his former boss just to put an end to it. They’d stopped off at a coffee shop in town so the Italian could rest his ankle before they made their way back to England’s. Quiet enveloped them. Spain’s usually cheery smile nowhere in sight.

“Hey Roma? Can I ask you something?” 

“Y-yeah, what is it?”

“What do you think of Eyebrows?”

The sudden heavy question caught the frazzled Italian completely by surprise. “...I-I He’s fucking scary. Why?” Spain let out a laugh, and then sighed before dropping his head down on to the glass of the bistro table, but he didn't say anything else, and Romano didn't know what else to say as he swirled the last of his nasty coffee around in the plastic take out cup. He’s not really sure what’s going on in the older nation’s head anymore. There seems to be a lot of things he doesn't know about. That’s probably a good thing. He doesn't want to get caught up in any unnecessary drama, but Spain seems so far away these days with all the secrets he’s keeping Romano’s not sure what to do about it, or if there is even anything he can do. If he can help then he’s definitely going to, but he needs to get Spain to tell him what’s going on first. He let the conversation drop too lost in his own thoughts, and eventually they made their way back to England’s after getting lost and missing three buses. They were laughing and joking around not bothered at all by the dark cloudy sky or the light drizzle. It was a brief moment of calm after a stormy few days, and he couldn't have been more thankful for the small period of normality as he put away the treats and groceries they’d picked up from the corner store on the way back. He’s not sure if being around England is always this chaotic or if he’s just unlucky, but it’s wearing him out.

The idea of Spain and England getting together is definitely better than the idea of the blond ending up with the German-Potato, but he still doesn't like it. He doesn't want England anywhere near Spain. Spain was his boss, his guardian, and is still the closest and most important person he has ever had in his life. Thinking about him getting together with England; a nation who he has such a violent history with, and who Romano doesn't really know that well doesn't settle well with him at all. Yet it’s the part of him that feels possessive over England that unsettles him the most. It’s scary and unfamiliar.

All these revelations had hit him hard, so he gave Spain some shit excuse like he needed to take some painkillers and rest for a while, and hid himself away upstairs to try and make some sense of all his troubling thoughts. He came to two major realisations. The first is that Spain has been keep a load of shit from his ‘friends’ for a really long time. Even France doesn't know why the older nation has suddenly become so clingy towards the younger blond, and the two bastards talk about everything, or so Romano had thought. Even though the Tomato-Bastard hasn't openly admitted he likes the younger nation yet Spain’s troubling question earlier erased any shred of doubt the Italian had. It just makes his second realisation even scarier. He hadn't wanted to believe it - he still doesn't. He likes England, and that’s a fucking terrifying thing to admit, even to himself, but he can't deny it now that he’s actually fucking realised it. He even sees the bastard in his dreams now. Smiling that cheeky smile that messes the Italian up every time he imagines it. 

According to France the younger blond doesn't smile much around anyone anymore - he’s usually too stressed and irritable to allow himself to relax. Whenever he thinks that England smiles like that, and only allows himself to fully relax in front of him it makes the Italian so fucking happy he could burst, and then he realises what he’s thinking and feels fucking terrified all over again. Is that how Spain feels too? Dammit. He feels like a huge dick, but there’s no point in lying to himself. He likes England. He wants to spend more time with the bastard, and get to know him better. He wants to make the blond laugh and smile, and watch those peridot orbs of his sparkle with joy while looking at him the way they do when England fusses over his beloved rose garden. He wants the bastard to play his little pranks and scare Romano shitless just so the blond will comfort him, and pet his head like he had last Tuesday. C-chigi! What the hell is he thinking?

The rain is falling heavily behind the curtains. The sound of it hitting the old sheet of glass echoes loudly in the silence of the dark bedroom Romano has hauled himself up in. Spain is talking downstairs. He can hear the bastard’s voices muffled by the rain as he eats his very late lunch down in the kitchen. Maybe England has finally left the office? Hopefully, but then remembers it’s because of the Tea-Bastard that he’s like this. Hidden away upstairs pretending to take a siesta while trying not to go fucking insane, and he decided against going down to see if the blond is there or not. The Tomato-Bastard might just be on the phone, and there’s no way he feels up to dealing with Spain right now. If he’d known it was going to turn out like this he would have never gotten on that flight to London. He wouldn't have even bothered to answer his idiot brother’s stupid phone call. It’s stupid, because only a week ago he hadn't even wanted to come, and now he can't stop thinking about the man that only a while ago scared the living shit out of him. 

He likes England. He. Likes. England. Fuck, he doesn't even need to try and convince himself. His face is flushed from just thinking the nation’s name. England. England. England. Fuck! He really can't deny it. The younger nation makes him feel so...so, fuck, the bastard just makes him feel. Happy, annoyed, embarrassed, sad, relieved. He’s gone through so many different emotions in the week and three days he’s been staying with the Englishman, and so many weird and exciting things have happened. England. England. Ugh, fuck! Just stop thinking about the bastard already!

Three more days. Just three more days, and then he’ll be back in Sicily, and maybe he can put all this behind him. Go back to wasting the long summer days out on his porch drinking mojitos, and not think about the fucking Tea-Bastard (dammit!), or Spain or the Potato-Bastard who England apparently likes. Fuck! Maybe he should just poison himself with Marmite, and end it all. God. What the hell? Poisoning himself with Marmite? What a fucking awful way to go. E-even if the fucking Tea-Bastard does like the Potato-Bastard if he gets together with Veneziano then - God dammit, no! Just no! Anyway that would still leave Spain, and he draws the line at trying to sabotage his former boss. It’s not like he’d ever even consider it, because that would be fucking wrong.

Not that he actually knows for sure if the moron does like the blond or not, dammit. If he could just find out what the hell Spain wants to tell the island nation then he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. There’s a good chance England would turn Spain down if he did confess, since the blond supposedly likes the fucking Potato-Bastard, and then Romano would- fuck, no! This is why the blond scares him so fucking much. He’s completely wormed his way into the Italian’s mind making him think about doing unbelievably insane things like setting his brother up with that damned German-Bastard, or trying to steal a march on the man who fucking raised him. He can't even trust his own thoughts because of the island nation anymore.

The cotton sheets are soft and cool. He buries his face into them covering his head with the puffy pillow to muffles his shouts as he vents his frustrations into the dark room. If someone had told him only a week ago he’d end up having feelings for the Tea-Bastard he would have probably laughed, and then felt disgusted by the very idea of being anywhere near the other nation. Let alone being i-intimate with him. They are intimate in a way. Not romantically, but - England definitely treats him better than he treats Spain or France. He’d have to be blind and deaf to not have noticed that. The blond is usually calm around him when the Italian doesn't do something stupid like jump to conclusions or ask personal questions the other man would rather not answer. He treats Romano with gentle considerations always asking if he’s comfortable or if he needs anything. He even gives him space when he needs it, and appreciates the effort the mediterranean nation puts into making their meals - not that he has any other choice but to prepare them. He likes the blond, but he has no desire to eat the man’s ‘cooking’. They haven't had time for any lessons, apart from the first day making an omelette, and that hadn't turned out that great thanks to the lack of ingredients, dammit.

England had such a childlike wonder in his eyes that day. It was adorable. Romano sees it every time he spots the blond talking to his ‘fairy friends’ (the ones only the blond can see). At first watching England talk away to his invisible and probably (maybe) imaginary friends was freaky. He seriously thought the blond is nuts, but the way his peridot gaze lights up as he apparently spots one of his friends supposedly causing mischief around the house is adorable, even if it’s still fucking weird. It’s amazing, because despite the hundreds of years of bloodshed and hurt the blond has gone through (he’s been doing his research) he still has something from his childhood that is still important to him. Something the blond believes is truly special that makes him happy, and smile that innocent childlike smile. 

Jealousy is a sin Romano is very aware he is guilty of, and he’s honestly jealous that the blond still has something that can make him smile like that. Yeah he has Spain and his brothers, and he loves them, but after all the hell he’s been through in his life there’s no way he could ever smile the way England does. Not the way Spain or his brothers do. He’s too disconnected from everything, too pessimistic, and too afraid to hope. That’s why he needs Spain’s stupid happy self in his life. With that stupid ever-smiling face and fucking annoying ‘fusososo’ of his. If he didn't he’d probably break down and never recover again. There’s no way he’s going to do something fucking stupid like try and seduce the Tea-Bastard as long as Spain likes him. Che. All these heavy thoughts are just making him more fucking depressed. 

Quiet fills the air. The rain lightens, and he can't hear Spain talking anymore. Can't hear anything actually, apart from his own breathing and the wind rustling the trees outside. Maybe the bastard really was on the phone? There wasn't any audible sign that England had joined the other man in the kitchen. He would of heard the two nations talking, and given they only ever fight whenever they see each other there’s no way Romano wouldn't have heard them. Maybe he should go look. Just in case. 

Minutes pass, but the Italian doesn't move from the bed. Why can't he hear anything? Spain isn't the quietest of nations, and he was able to hear man talking clearly before. He couldn't hear what he was saying, but he could definitely hear his voice coming from the kitchen.

By the time he eventually pulls himself from the warm nest of sheets it’s already gotten dark, and there's a small sliver of light shining in from under the door. Ugh, where’s his phone? The bright LED light from the little screen illuminates the shiny metal of the crutches by the nightstand, and he’s glad they’re in easy reach. It would be a pain in the ass to have to try and literally crawl around in the dark to find them. Which wouldn't make any sense, because he would of had to of used them to get to the bed, so of course they’re nearby. Che. He’s still half asleep, and not making any sense. The smell of food being cooked wafts into the room, and thankfully he can't smell anything burning, so Spain must be preparing dinner. Thank fucking God. He’s hungry, and the last thing he wants right now is to have to cook. Again.

Dinner turns out to be a mixture of warmed up leftovers. Not exactly what he’d been hoping for. At least he knows it’s good since he’s the one who cooked it in the first place. It would be nice to eat Spain’s home cooking again for a change since it’s been so long since he’s had it. Selfish fucker making him do all the cooking. England doesn't eat with them. The blond is presumably locked away in the office still working on the trade report Romano is supposed to be helping him with. He feels like an idiot. So far the island nation has worked on the entire report completely by himself. Ever since Spain showed up the blond has been reserved, and spends most of his day shut away in the creepy little room. 

The first night after all four nations had finally arrived back to England’s manor after leaving the hotel England had offered to help the Italian cook, since Romano was tired, but his offer was very quickly and very harshly shot down down by Spain (he’s not sure where France had fucked off to at the time). The exasperated Italian had to kick both of the former pirate bastards out of the kitchen just to stop them from fighting, and he’s hardly seen the blond since. 

For the past few days Romano has tried to catch the blond in the morning before Spain wakes up. He knows the Englishman wakes early to prepare his first cup of tea of the day, but the Italian hasn't been able to corner him yet. The alarm gets set earlier each morning in hopes of catching the other nation before he locks himself away in the office again, but so far Romano’s only come down to find an empty kitchen, so each morning he starts on breakfast knowing Spain will be hungry by the time he finally drags his ass out of bed. The plate of food he leaves for the blond the night before is always gone, washed up and put away when Romano goes to check the fridge, so at least the bastard is eating, or at least he thinks so. He’d checked the bin once just to make sure the elusive nation isn't just throwing the food away, but thankfully he didn't find anything. He knows it’s not Spain eating it, because as soon as he’s asleep the snoozy bastard is out for the night, and unless Romano has suddenly developed a sleep eating disorder since staying with the blond it’s not him either, so it has to be England. 

Today is no different. He’d woken early, but England was nowhere in sight. He checked the fridge finding no plate, and started on making breakfast. Spain appeared just as the Italian was serving up smiling and complaining about being hungry just as expected. They ate, and Romano bathed and changed for church while Spain washed the dishes. Now they’re eating dinner, but there’s still no sign of England, and it’s thanks to the blond’s absence the last few days that Romano finally realised his own conflicted feelings. He misses seeing the mysterious nation (even though they’re currently staying in the same house) so fucking much he’s dreaming about the man just so he can see the bastard’s face. 

He groans pushing the plate aside to drop his head down on to the wooden table. “Roma?” Ugh.

“It’s nothing, Bastard.” 

“Is your foot hurting again?”

“No, fucker. I'm just tired from all the travelling earlier. I'm going to go back to sleep. See you tomorrow.” Spain gives him a frown, and gets up from the table to clear the dishes asking the Italian if he wants dessert before he goes. He can't shake his head like this, so he gestures with his hand instead, and Spain laughs as he makes his way to the sink.

“Bring your dirty clothes down in the morning! I'm going to do some laundry.” That gets his attention.

“Don't make yourself at home in somebody else’s fucking house, Bastard.”

“Inglaterra won't mind. ‘Sides I'm out of underwear, so I need to do the laundry anyway.” The look he gives the idiot says it all, and Spain laughs again saying something about only packing one pair, and something about taking the Italian back to Spain - wait, what?

“Eh?”

“It can't be nice for you to have to wander around England’s house on crutches, so I thought I’d be better if you came back to my place! Boss’ll look after you, so your ankle will heal in no time!” That sounds...Really nice actually, but it’s only three days until he’s supposed to be going home, and it’s not like he can have Spain running around after him for possibly months until his ankle finally heals. The idiot has work to do. The surface of the table is rough on his face, so he props his elbow on it resting his cheek in his hand.

“Thanks, Bastard, but it’s only three days, and I'm not a kid anymore. I don't need you to look after me.” If the bastard keeps smiling like that he’s going to punch the irritating fucker. “What is it, asshole?”

“Hm? Nothing! Sometimes I just forget how small and needy you were before. You’ve grown up so much.” What the hell? 

“O-of course I have, moron, and I wasn't fucking needy!”

“I remember you used to get lost all the time, and sometimes you even pee’d in your sle-”

“-Fuck! Shut up! Stop dragging up the fucking past! And you wonder why I never want to fucking see you!” He grabs the crutches, and awkwardly storms out the kitchen ignoring the heat on his face, and Spain's fucking annoying laughter. 

“Don't forget to bring down your clothes!”

“Yeah, yeah! I got it, Bastard. Shut up alre-” The next thing he knows he’s crashed into something, but he never hits the floor. When he regains his senses he pushes away from whatever he’d crashed into looking up to see England’s peridot eyes looking back down at him. Colour bursts across his face, and he stumbles back trying to put some distance between the two of them, but he doesn't get very far. The blond is still holding onto the Italian’s shoulders steadying him, and stopping him from falling on his ass. 

“Careful.” His brain and mouth seem to have stopped working, because he can't think of anything to say. England let’s him go, and he stands there frozen unable to process what’s going on. “I heard shouting, so I came to see if everything was alright.” 

“I-it’s fine! I-I I'm going to sleep! Goodnight, fucker!” England jumps, and so does he mortified by his idiotic reaction. Spain appears from the doorway probably curious to see why the Italian was shouting, and as soon as the blond spots the Spaniard he stiffens quickly making his way past to enter the kitchen without a word as Spain walks over to check on the shocked Italian, and help him up the stairs. 

That had been so fucking humiliating. He can't believe it. He can't believe he froze up like that just from seeing the blond's face. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A fresh wave of embarrassment washes over him. It’s horrible and humid in the stuffy bedroom, and the salty sting of tears is still hurting his eyes. Fucking Spain hadn't helped either going on about how Romano was cranky because he was tired, and then carrying him up the stairs like a fucking girl. Fuck. Like he wasn't embarrassed enough already. He didn't needed the bastard doing unnecessary shit like that. He curls up feeling miserable, and eventualky falls back to sleep

Something loud like a crash wakes him from his dream. Spain is shouting and laughing out in the hall, and then he hears England’s unmistakable chuckle. There’s another loud bang, and another roar of laughter coming from the hallway. What the hell? He checks his phone. It’s already 7AM! Did his alarm not go off? Right. Of course not. He unset it, because he was too fucking embarrassed about what happened last night to want to risk running into the Tea-Bastard so early in the morning. Che. Dammit. It’s still early. He really can't be bothered to drag himself out of bed, but he also really wants to know what the two bastard are laughing about so early in the morning. He might as well get up. It’s not like he can go back to sleep with all the noise the two bastard are making. 

A loud crash like something huge being knocked over breaks the momentary quiet, and then he hears England burst into laughter as Spain says something in Spanish the Italian doesn't quite catch. The bastard sounds like he’s in pain. Seriously, what the fuck? He flies out of bed as fast as he can to grab the crutches, and hobbles out of the room to see what the hell just happened. He spots England and Spain both huddled by a little window in the hallway. The Tea-Bastard covers his mouth while clutching his stomach trying to calm down, and Spain has got tears running down his face as he tries to hold his phone still. 

“What the hell are you doing, bastards?” Two sets of amused greens eyes look over at him. England’s face is bright red from laughing, and the Tomato-Bastard looks like he’s about to piss himself.

“Ah, morn-morning-pfft!” The Tea-Bastard is off again, as Spain excitedly ushers the younger brunet over to the window with a shout of “Hurry, Roma! Look! Look!”. Whatever the hell is going on must be fucking hilarious for these two bastards to be in such a state. He makes his way over Spain wiggling around obviously desperate for the toilet as England wipes the tears from his own eyes taking a deep breath trying (and failing) to calm down. Spain groans as he shuffles back making room for the injured Italian to squeeze between the two former empires, so he can see out of the window. At first he doesn't notice anything, but something moving catches his attention, and he spots a tractor with a box full of sheep struggling to reverse through a gate into a field. The poor bastard trying to drive the tractor is obviously having a hard time, and ends up hitting the hedge surrounding the field making the startled sheep bleat, and sets the two amused nations off into another fit of giggles. He’s just trying to make sense of why the bastard it trying to reverse into the field instead of just driving in straight, but he never gets an answer, because Spain and England are too busy laughing their asses off at the scene to notice the Italian’s question.

Shaking his head at the two morons he slowly makes his way downstairs to start on breakfast. Spain whines at him as he goes saying that Romano’s no fun before being distracted again by the chaos outside, and England is too busy laughing at Spain as he jumps around still desperate for the toilet to even notice the Italian leaving. A small smile tugs on his own lips at the two childish nations. It’s nice to see them both laughing. By the time the two idiots calm down enough to join the Italian downstairs he’s already done with breakfast, and Spain is still chuckling away to himself as he eats. Hearing the Tomato-Bastard still laughing makes England splutter as he sips his tea, and Romano has to force himself to not yell at the two childish bastard to grow up and eat their food before it goes cold. 

The rest of the day was rather peaceful, and passed without any drama. Well, except the Italian’s little breakdown at lunchtime. He spent the day curled up on the sofa channel surfing while Spain worked on his laptop in the kitchen, and England once again disappeared into the office to work. He’d wanted to ask the blond if he needed any help, but the truth is there’s nothing for him to even contribute, and he couldn't bring himself to ask as he watched the younger nation walk away. He felt embarrassed knowing both England and Spain were diligently working away as he laid around with nothing to do. He’s a nation same as them. He should know the status of things in his own fucking country, but thanks to Veneziano doing all the work the older Italian is honestly clueless as to what goes on in government these days. He needs to get more involved. Needs to make fucking Veneziano listen to him for a change. 

Spain had popped his head around the doorframe at one point to ask what the younger nation had been sighing about so much, and the Italian definitely didn't start crying as he relayed all his worries to his ‘boss’. The bastard’s caring tone and gentle petting only made him feel even more fucking pathetic. Dammit. Spain had his own fucking shit to deal with, and there he was spending his time consoling Romano, because he’s a fucking useless bastard. A fucking nation who has no standing in his own fucking country. Dammit. Spain might be a doting old fart sometimes, but he’s right about the Italian needing to do something to change the situation if it’s worrying him that much. Nothing will change if he just sits around complaining about it, but he doesn't want to start arguing over shit with Veneziano either. 

He’s knows the situation between them is strained. He’s not fucking stupid, but it’s never been any different. They’ve lived their whole lives apart from each other. They’re practically strangers. It would be unrealistic to think they would get along just by having them ‘unify’ as one country, and then start living together. After working it out he realised he’s spent more time with the Tea-Bastard these last two weeks than he has with Veneziano in the last fifty years. Dammit. Listening to England talk to America on the phone the other day made it obvious just how close the two blonds are, even despite all of America’s bitching about the older nation. He honestly can't say the same about him and Veneziano. There’s no way he’d think of calling the little idiot if he ever needed advice, or someone to talk to. That’s always been Spain’s ‘job’, and Veneziano has Austria, and the fucking Potato-Bastard. There’s no way he’d ever think to call Romano for anything important like that either.

“If you want to talk to your brother, Roma you should just call him.” Easy for fucking Spain to say. Actually now that he thinks about it Spain has his issues with Portugal too, but they’re trying to work it out, and fix things, or so the younger Iberian says. It’s not like he doesn't want to get closer with Veneziano he just doesn't know where to fucking start, and the fact the little shit is always with the Potato-Bastard doesn't fucking help either. They’re always together, so it’s not like Romano can just drop in and see Veneziano these days, because there’s a good fucking chance the Macho-Potato will be there too, and there’s no way in hell he wants to see that bastard. Chigi!

He spent a good while absorbed in his thoughts trying to be as quiet as possible while Spain took a video call in the other room, but it’s difficult to be quiet when your stomach is demanding to be fucking fed, and you can't get anything, because there’s a bastard working in the fucking kitchen. Damn Spain. 

There was some historical program on about the discovery of some old artefacts in various parts of the Tea-Bastard’s country, so he watched that for a while trying to distract himself from his stomach. Trying to understand it had been kind of a pain in the ass, because of the thick regional accents, but he got a basic understanding of what they were talking about. The early British people were master craftsmen, especially with metal works, and eager traders adopting the language and cultural aspects of many of the other peoples they traded with until nations like Nonno and Denmark came and conquered the island. He doesn't really know much about the island nation’s early royalty, but some of them were apparently really involved in England’s development. They built many public facilities for learning and religion expanding the cities and settlements that Nonno and Saxony had left behind. By the time the program had finished the Italian was flicking through the channels for more information about the mysterious nation. 

The rest of the afternoon he watched as many shows as he could find about the nation, and he became more fucking confused about the bastard’s history than before he started. Trying to timeline all the various rulers and their achievements with other important moments in the blond’s history like wars and major disasters was difficult, because many of them had similar names, and the earlier back it went the less written documentation there was, and much of the tales of various events were more myth and legend than solid fact. He realised then that it probably didn't matter how much research he did. The only one who could fill in most of the blanks of the nation’s past would be England himself, and there’s no fucking way he’d feel comfortable asking the blond about it. That would be a major fucking invasion of the bastard’s privacy, and he doesn't want the blond thinking he’s some kind of creep, but he really wants to know how the blond came to be the nation he is now with his messed up sense of humour, and sarcastic personality.

The one thing that was really obvious is just how condescending the English are towards their nation these days. He couldn't find any more historical shows to watch, so the Italian ended up switching on the news then wished he hadn't, and turned over to some nature documentary or something about owls. He can't help but wonder if his people’s discontent has affected the blond in any way, because it sure as hell would depress the hell out of him to have his own people talk about him like that. His own people have their complaints, but, fuck. England’s people are pretty fucking harsh. To go from learning all about the great achievements and developments the island nation had gone through to listening to the current discord and unrest on the island really shocked him. It shouldn't have, because it’s no different anywhere else, but to hear England’s own people ridicule the nation so much really surprised him, and it didn't help the Italian’s own insecurities about the current state of affairs in his own nation either. At the same time, it’s nice to know he’s not the only one. Spain complains constantly about the situation at his place, and it’s no different for England either apparently. 

After the nature documentary (which the Italian didn't really pay any attention to) was a gardening program talking about maintaining lawns and shrubs in hot dry weather. That hadn't interested him either, so he switched off the TV, and listened out for Spain hoping the bastard would be done with his work soon, so the Italian could finally get something to eat. Dinner was uneventful. Spain finally finished his video call at around seven, and Romano was so hungry he told the poor bastard he’d have to make something for himself, because the Italian wasn't going to wait any longer. He threw together the last of the leftovers to satisfy his grumbling stomach, and ate as he watched Spain cook. England didn't join them. Again, and Romano had begun to wonder if there was something more to the blond’s absence than just work. 

The Tea-Bastard had said before that Veneziano had already sent him all the needed documents to compile the report, so there should be no reason for the blond to have to spend such long hours everyday working on the thing. He mulled it over while Spain cooked and bitched about something or other. Romano simply tuned him out lost in his own thoughts, but he couldn't think of reason why England would be so distant other than being busy with work. The only other possibility he could think of was that the Brit is maybe avoiding one or both of the brunets for some reason, but that didn't make any sense either. England had seemed fine that morning happily laughing along with Spain at the poor tractor driver’s struggles, and during breakfast the blond had seemed relaxed after he finally calmed down enough to stop laughing. He can't think of any reason why the blond would suddenly feel the need to avoid either of the mediterranean nations. Spain hadn't said anything, and neither had Romano. England had said that he doesn't get much time to relax, so maybe it’s not the trade report, but some other work that’s got the blond so busy. He follows Spain into the living room, and falls onto the couch with a thud before placing the crutches down on the floor. There’s no point in overthinking it. If the Tea-Bastard is busy he’s busy. 

The rest of the evening passes with the two brunets curled up in the living room watching various movies. England’s scruffy mop catches his attention at one point as he sees the blond disappear into the kitchen for a drink, but he doesn't stick around for long. Stating he has work to do when Spain says he should take a break and watch the rest of the movie with them. The Tomato-Bastard doesn't seem bothered by the response, but it’s bothering him, because seriously how much work can the bastard have to do that he’s spent the last three days shut away in his office barely taking the time to eat? 

By Wednesday he’d had enough. Romano stormed into the bastard’s office (after listening for a minute to make sure the blond wasn't on the phone or something) to tell the blond to take a break, because the Italian had prepared a big lunch, and it isn't fucking healthy to work so much without taking the time to relax once in awhile. His entire rant completely flew from his mind when he opened the door to see the blond fast asleep at his desk pen still in hand papers scattered across the solid wooden surface. He felt sorry for the bastard, because he must be seriously overworked to get to the point that he’d actually passed out from exhaustion. Romano quietly made his way from the office to track down Spain, and get the older nation to help move the snoozing blond to the living room.

“You think this happens a lot?”

“Dunno. He falls asleep at meetings sometimes. Let’s leave him be, Roma. He’s gotta be exhausted to have passed out like that.” He nods following the Spaniard to the kitchen closing the door adjoining the two rooms behind him softly. England eventually wakes from his nap joining the two brunets in the kitchen looking just as exhausted as he must feel. His eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark heavy bags under them. Spain looks up from his laptop spotting the younger nation, and gives the poor blond a wicked grin. 

“Whoa. What happened to you, Eyebrows?” 

“Ask bloody America. I swear that boy and his time zones are going to be the death of me.” The Tomato-Bastard laughs saying something about the troubles of parenthood, and pokes the blond (who is currently flopped over the table) in the forehead messing up his eyebrows. England grunts at the annoyance, but doesn't bother to stop the bastard, and Romano’s pretty sure the blond has gone and fallen asleep again.

“Wake up, Bastard. I'm heating up food, so hold on a minute, and you can eat.” He gets a grumble in response. Biting his lip to stop himself from smiling the Italian can't help but think the Englishman is acting more like a kid than his former colony right now. The poor bastard must be really exhausted if he’s too tired to even eat. Too fucking bad. He’s not going to have any energy at all if he falls asleep on an empty stomach, and after tomorrow the Italian won't be around to cook for the blond anymore. 

Disappointment wells up in his chest at the realisation that he’ll be on a plane home this time tomorrow. He’s happy to finally be going back, but he’s also a bit disappointed that he didn't really get to spend that much time with the blond the last few days. He didn't get to spend much time with Spain either now that he thinks about it, because the bastard had been busy sleeping whenever he wasn't working. Just like the Tea-Bastard. The Italian had spent so much time thinking about the blond that he didn't even really pay any attention to his former guardian, even during the few hours they got to spend together in the evenings after the older nation finished his work for the day. He can get a flight to Spain whenever he wants. He knows the bastard wouldn't mind. He’d probably be happy or die of shock if Romano suddenly decided to visit him out of the blue one day, but he can't say the same about England. The blond had been pretty pissed when France suddenly showed up, even after the older blond had called to say he was coming, so suddenly dropping in on the bastard just to say ‘hello’ probably wouldn't be a good idea. 

He’s still got the blond’s number stored in his phone, so maybe he could text the bastard. Maybe. Would that be too forward? Fuck. He doesn't want England to think he’s some kind of weirdo. Texting him out of nowhere. Besides hadn't he already decided not to think about the Tea-Bastard anymore once he got back to Sicily? He’s going to go back, and pretend the blond doesn't exist, and put these fucking feelings he’s developed for the bastard behind him. Go back to his normal life of not giving a shit about other nations, and not getting dragged into any more unnecessary drama while he figures out what to do about his brother and the fucking German-Potato.

That had been the plan, but it’s fucking difficult not to worry. He didn't sleep at all that night too troubled by the thoughts swirling around his mind making him restless. Spain still hadn't said anything to him or England, so the Italian had thought maybe he’d been mistaken, and Spain doesn't like the blond after all. Romano had a shock when he’d found the older nation leisurely lounging around in the living room Thursday morning instead of getting ready to leave. Apparently the bastard isn't going home yet. He’s going to see the younger brunet off at the airport in England’s place, and then join the blond nation to his house in Whitechapel for a few days. His mind was reeling. He couldn't believe it. Maybe the Tomato-Bastard hadn't said anything because he wanted the Italian out of the way when he confessed, but he didn't see why it would matter if he was around or not. Until he thought about it more as he waited for his flight to board. If England turned Spain down there’s no way the older nation would want anyone to know.

He feels anxious as he waits. The blond is going to alone with Spain for God knows how long. What if...what if Spain really does confess. Fuck. For all he knows the bastard could have done it already, and the next time Romano speaks to his former guardian the bastard might have a new English lover to gush about. Dammit. He falls back into the chair, and squeezes his hands together. It’s none of his fucking business if the two bastard’s do get together. He should be happy for the fucking Tomato-Bastard if that happens, but he just can't see it, or maybe he just doesn't fucking want to. These last two weeks were the first time Romano had ever really spent time with the island nation, and suddenly he fucking comes to realise he’s got a thing for the bastard (it’s definitely not a fucking crush, dammit).

He can't wait to get back home. Back to the familiar and secure surroundings of his own house - his own country away from the Tea-Bastard, and away from Spain. He doesn't want to be fucking alone though. Sulking around like a brat with his busted ankle, but he doesn't have anyone he can talk to apart from Spain, and that’s off the fucking table. It dawns on him then as he tries to think of anyone he can bitch and vent to that Belgium probably doesn't know, but it’s not his place to tell her, and what if he is wrong, and just jumping to conclusions? But what if he isn't? He likes Belgium. She’s nice, and spent a lot of time caring for the Italian whenever Spain went away on long campaigns, but if he does say something and he’s wrong that wouldn't just make him look fucking stupid, but it could also fuck up any chance of an actual relationship she might have with the Tomato-Bastard from developing. Fuck. 

There’s no way he wants to risk that. He knows just how much the blonde likes Spain. She always has from what the Italian can remember. It would be nice for his former guardian to have an honest and sweet woman like Belgium by his side, and yet it doesn't matter how many times they try. For some reason they can just never make it work. Fucking Spain. It’s not like Romano wouldn't be happy having a strongwilled, dependable woman like Belgium love him like that, but that’s probably because he had a huge crush on her back when he was still a kid living at Spain's. Dammit. How did he even start thinking about this? Oh right, he was thinking about the stupid not-a-crush he has on the Tea-Bastard.

Tired from lack of sleep the night before, and mentally strained from thinking too much the exhausted Italian falls asleep, and the stewardess gently shakes him awake some time later to inform the groggy half-nation that they’ve landed. The man beside him grabs their carry on bags from the overhead storage compartment with a smile, and wishes the brunet well. He watches the man make his way into the aisle to stand with the rest of the commuters waiting to disembark. Heat engulfs the plane as the doors open, and he waits by his seat for the crowd to pass not wanting to get knocked over on the unsteady crutches. The line moves steadily forward the heat intensifying as he edges closer to the doors hobbling along at the back of the ‘que’. 

Bright sunlight blinds him as he makes his way out into the blazing summer heat the sweet Sicilian air filling his nostrils. Okay so maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. He’s still at the airport the air smells of jet fuel and exhaust. It’s anything but sweet, but he’s just so fucking happy to be back he doesn't give a shit. The weather in England had been okay most of the time Romano had been there, but it doesn't matter how good the bastard’s weather is it simply can't compare to the scorching Sicilian sun the Italian loves so much. It burns his skin warming him through mind finally at ease as he looks around at the bustling airport. He’s only been gone two weeks, but it honestly felt so much longer. The stewardess carries his bags while a steward helps the injured Italian down the steps, and into a wheelchair where he’s passed off to a porter to take him to the taxi rank. He feels relaxed knowing he’s finally back. All his anxiety and stress seeps away as the familiar soothing pulse of the bustling city pours through his veins as he watches it pass by through the window of the taxi. He’s home.

The driver chatters away as he drives asking the nation all about his trip, and what the island nation is like. He hadn't really been paying attention giving vague answers as he watched the streets and shops of his neighborhood come into view. When they finally arrive outside Romano’s little house the driver helps the injured brunet out of the car, and drops the nation's bags on the step in front of the door. He thanks the man then watches the taxi speed off as he juggles his keys in stumbling fingers desperate to get inside. The air is quiet as he opens the door with baited breath. There’s no one around. Of course not. It’s the middle of the day. It’s bliss, and he can't believe just how much he’d missed it. He hadn't even realised he did until he finally got back. England’s manic pace had kept him so flustered the past two weeks the Italian didn't even have time to really realise just how worn out he was until he finally closed the front door, and took a look around the familiar surroundings of his home. 

It took a while to struggle up the stairs with his carry on bag, but he eventually reached the landing, and mentally prepared himself to do it all over again as he slid back down the steps on his ass to retrieve his suitcase from the hall. When both bags and the exhausted half-nation were all securely planted on the landing upstairs he took a moment to rest just basking in the comfortable silence as he rubbed his tired eyes. This time two weeks ago he was on his way to England’s anxious and petrified by the idea of seeing the island nation for the first time in decades. Trying to wrap his mind around all the crazy events that had happened was exhausting. How the Tea-Bastard could live such a chaotic life everyday is beyond him. Romano would have probably gone insane by now. Pfft. That would explain a lot. The blond’s manic life has driven him crazy. That would explain the fairies he says he sees. 

Dammit. He’s not getting anywhere just sitting around on the landing. He pulls himself up onto his good foot, and leans against the wall using one of the crutches to support his weight. He uses the other to hook inside the handle of the carry on bag to lift it up off the floor and slide it along the pole of the crutch into his hand. It’s awkward and slow, but he eventually reaches his bedroom dragging his suitcase behind him a little at a time silently thankful that he thought to get one with wheels. He nudged the door open with the crutch after undoing the latch, and honestly wasn't prepared to see what he saw as the door gently swung open.

There laying blissfully unaware of his presence in the doorway was Seborga. Curled up on his older brother’s bed completely defenceless with a stupid smile on his face. He would have been pissed, and kicked the younger nation out if the little shit didn't look so completely comfortable, and siesta honestly sounded really good right about now. So instead of waking the brat Romano dropped his bag down on to the floor, propped his crutches up by the wall and crawled on to the bed to join his adorable little brother for a much needed nap. 

He could ask the little shit how he got in later when he wasn't so exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are very appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late again as always! Been having trouble with updates lately. For some reason everything I write keeps turning into SpUk... :/ Anyway...
> 
> Warnings for this part: None

The neighbourhood children have all returned to school, but the sounds of busy civilians bustling around town going about their daily lives is familiar and relaxing. The streets are quieter now that summer’s peak season is over, and the seemingly endless hordes of sunburnt tourists have finally gone back to their respect home countries. The beautiful autumn hues of the changing leaves are gone having been whipped away by the harsh icy breath of brisk winter winds, and the southern Italian nation has lost any desire to go outside. Only a few weeks ago Romano had been feeling productive and accomplished as his people prepared for the on-coming winter taking full advantage of the cheaper off-season prices, but now that winter’s here the brunet is all too happy to stay glued to the sofa until Spring. Seborga is still wandering around the local area somewhere obviously more used to the lower temperatures than his southern brother. The kid had gone out unbothered by the cold with just a thin jacket to shield him from the wintry chill. The older Italian refused to go. Choosing to stay by the nice warm fireplace in the living room to ‘hibernate’ in his nest of blankets with a plate of freshly made cannoli. 

He wiggles his toes to see how it feels, but even that tiny movement sends a wave of discomfort through his stiff ankle. Dammit. He should be thankful that the cast is finally off, and he’s free to try and walk around again, but the brace is no better than the cast had been. In fact it’s worse, because he’s too scared to even try to move his foot too much, and it’s driving the already frustrated southern Italian batshit insane. Being stuck on the crutches had been a million times better than this. At least he’d been able to go out and get around okay on them. Not that he wanted to most of the time, but he could have done safe in the knowledge that the cast was keeping his busted ankle protected. Now he has to actually try and force himself to walk on his own two feet again. 

Applying even the slightest bit of pressure on his foot is terrifying, and even though the doctor had told him multiple times that it’s not going to happen the nervy Italian still can't shake the fear he’s going to re-break the injured joint just by trying to stand up. He feels wobbly and unstable without both of the crutches, but if he doesn't try to use his ankle at least a little each day his muscles and tendons apparently won't strengthen properly, and his ‘recovery’ will take much longer than necessary. Che. Like he cares about that. He’s only had that dead weight off his leg for the past few weeks. He’s not about to go and do something stupid like try to walk before he’s ready, and risk ending up in a fucking cast again.

So here he is, confined to his all-too quiet living room with nothing to do but eat the last of his cannoli, and avoid moving around as much as possible until Spring finally arrives. Maybe he should take another nap or something just to pass the time until Seborga decides to come back from wherever he’s gone. He’s finally got the house to himself for a few hours, but he’s already sick of the all the daytime television reruns, and the Tea-Bastard hasn't bothered to answer any of the texts the brunet had sent for the past week and a half. He skims through his phone to re-read the Tea-Bastard’s previous texts. His cheeks flush at the thought of the younger nation. His plan to not think about the peridot-eyed man had come to a premature end just two days after he’d finally arrived home in Sicily three months ago, and he’s not been able to stop thinking about the enegmatic blond since. 

No fucking shit. His collection of ‘England’ themed junk had been getting out of control. Even Seborga had noticed his brother’s weird new hobby. Not that he couldn't have noticed, because it had completely taken over the living room. Nothing relaxes him more after a hellish day of doing fuck all than laying back and watching one of his ‘special’ DVDs. The blond’s beautiful dew-covered dales and sprawling bluebell woods are mesmerising. He can't stop watching. He’s fucking tried. More than just a couple of times, but somehow he always ends up right back where he started with his back plastered to the sofa eyes fixated on the TV screen. There’s nothing rare or overly unique about the sights at England’s place, so he’s got no clue why he likes them so much. There are woodlands just like them all over western and central Europe, but there’s just something about the ones at England’s place that has the Italian transfixed, and he hates admitting it, but he’s got no intention of giving up his new indulgence no matter how weird it is. No chance. He needs some kind of reprieve from the situation with his ankle, and his fascination with the English nation keeps him from going insane. Except for when the bastard drives the Italian fucking crazy by not bothering to answer any of his texts. Che.

His new hobby isn't exactly normal. He would have to be fucking insane not to have realised that, but it’s not like it’s totally unheard of for a nation to appreciate various aspects of other nations bodies, history or culture. He isn't a fucking Anglophile like Seborga keeps saying. No one says anything when the fucking German-Potato goes creeping around Veneziano’s place every other fucking day. So what does it matter to anyone else if Romano likes the Tea-Bastard’s body, or if he finds the bastard’s chaotic history interesting, or his bizarre local customs adorable? As long as no one (especially England) finds out it should be fine, hopefully. Even if some bastard or other does start asking questions he can just say it’s research, because there’s nothing fucking weird about wanting to learn about their fellow nations for work purposes. In fact, Spain had tried to teach a young Romano all he knew about the world back in the day, so the Italian could learn more about caring for his own country, but he hadn't been interested back then. Not that he’s interested now. The Tea-Bastard is just a special case. He still doesn't know why, but for whatever fucked up reason he really can't ignore his fascination with the younger nation. Every time he tries he just ends up feeling like shit. Like he’s forcing himself for no good reason.

He happily spent most of the long summer days, and cool autumn evenings like that. Comfortably sprawled out on the sofa watching informative DVDs, or reading up on the northern nation. He still finds ‘The Great Cream Tea Debate’ pretty funny. He never imagined something like that would be so important to England’s people, but it’s apparently a huge deal to the citizens of Devon and Cornwall - two of the blond's better known seaside counties. Trying one of England’s ‘scones’ is definitely not something he ever plans on doing. He’s heard more than enough horror stories about their secondary function as a biological weapon to ever want to eat one, but he’s still interested in knowing how the blond prepares his cream teas.

It wasn't until Romano had tried to buy himself a new audio book online only for his order to be declined due to lack of funds that the Italian finally admitted that he might have a problem. Seborga drilled the point home some weeks later when he’d said that while it's cute his brother has someone he admires so much buying up everything that has the word ‘England’ or the flag of Saint George printed on it is a little more than just a bit creepy. The icing on the cake came when the two brothers got ‘trapped’ in the living room one gloomy afternoon after Seborga had accidentally knocked over Romano’s ever growing collection with the mop while he was cleaning. The resulting avalanche rippled through the entire room sending stacks of DVDs, books, and fuck knows what else (he’s honesty lost track of all the shit he’d brought) cascading to the floor right on top of the two bewildered countries. It took Seborga over two hours to clear a path to the entryway, and after the first hour of being ‘buried alive’ the hysteria had started to kick in, and the kid couldn't stop himself from laughing. His endless stream of terrible jokes about how they were ‘drowning in England’ really were terrible. It took another two days for Seborga to convince his older brother that his boredom shopping issues were (are) seriously out of control. Looking back at it now the whole thing was so ridiculous it actually was kind of funny. 

The older nation figured the brat was probably right about his boredom shopping though, and as much as he really didn't fucking want to it was about time to do something about his ‘stash’. If he could at least move it somewhere out of plain sight where it wasn't going to hurt anyone then that should be fine. He didn't need to do something as extreme as throw everything out like Seborga had suggested...He’d come downstairs the next morning hoping to find his younger brother making breakfast. Instead the brat was busy organising the carnage from a few days before into various piles of books, DVDs, and several piles of ‘miscellaneous junk’. The little shit gave him a choice. Choose his top five favourites from each pile, and ditch the rest, or he would tell Veneziano in great detail all about their brother’s ‘harmless little obsession’ with a certain peridot-eyed nation.

Seborga is surprisingly dependable when he isn't being a little shit. He has to admit his collection did get a tiny bit out of control, and if it wasn't for the kid Romano would probably be buried up to his chest in pointless junk he doesn't actually need by now. He’s just lucky his little brother doesn't know about all the shit down in the cellar. He’s got hundreds of years worth of crap down there, and he can never bring himself to ever get rid of any of it. As much as he didn't like the kid at the time (he’s pretty sure he called him something like the ‘spawn of Satan’, or ‘a treacherous little fucker’) for forcing him to downsize his England collection Seborga is a good kid. He was always there ready to help the older nation up and down the stairs without needing to be asked, and even did all the shopping, cooking and cleaning whenever he came over just so his brother didn't have to walk around any more than necessary. He’s not sure what the hell he would have done if Seborga hadn't have been there so often. Probably call Spain, and cry to him or something - actually probably fucking not. There’s no way in hell he’ll ever let Spain of all nations find out about his England fascination. Fuck no.

Shit. What was he thinking about? Oh right, Seborga. In comparison to Veneziano, (who obviously doesn't give a shit since he hasn't even bothered to ask how his injured brother is doing even once) the kid is an angel. It’s just as the idiot had said. The brat has grown up a lot in the years Romano hadn't seen him, and it was actually nice having his youngest brother around for a change. So one evening back in the autumn when he was feeling particularly put out by the situation with his busted ankle the older Italian may have told the brat in a moment of pain induced madness that he might go and visit the little ‘country’ sometime. When he can actually walk around freely again that is. Maybe in late spring or something when it’s not too cold. Who knows maybe if the kid’s lucky his older brother might even feel like going out of his way to cook for him. Maybe, but just because he feels like he owes Seborga for being there it doesn't mean he’s going to tell the little shit where he’d hidden the mascarpone. There are some things the older nation just wants to keep for his damned self.

Wiggling his toes again the brunet sighs, and stares up at the familiar cracked plaster of his living room ceiling feeling lethargic and useless. It’s not just the ceiling. The walls are full of cracks and in need of repairs too. The front door hinges desperately need oiling as well before they either seize up completely or drive him nuts from the squeaking. How many years has he lived here now? Ten? Twenty? Yeah, something like that. Must be something close to that, because the little girl who used to live in one of the upstairs apartments down the street when the nation first moved in isn't a little girl anymore. She’d gotten married, and moved out some time ago. Che. That’s the last thing he wants to be thinking about. Moving house is always such a pain in the ass, but it’s not like he can help being a nation, or having a longer lifespan than regular humans. He might be their nation, but the doesn't mean he trusts his people not to try and execute him if they ever find out what he really is. Not like fucking France who goes around parading his national status. 

Knowing Seborga is out enjoying himself - probably chatting up a cute girl or two, and having a good time while he’s here going stir-crazy is annoying, but he’d been the one who decided not to go out. Che. At least Seborga is around. There’s actually someone in his life apart from Spain who actually gives shit about him now. He needs that more than he’d like to admit. He can actually talk to his youngest brother about anything, and he does. He told the kid all about the issues he has with Veneziano, and even about his cru-interest in the Tea-Bastard. Which he'd never dare mention to anyone else, especially not Spain; who is usually the first nation Romano goes to when he needs someone to bitch to. The weird part is that he actually believes the kid when he says he won't say a word to anyone about any of the things his brother has told him. 

He’d lost count of how many weeks have passed since that day when he finally told Seborga that his interest in the Tea-Bastard is more than just simple admiration for a fellow nation. He still can't believe he actually said that, but it had just kind of slipped out in the middle of a conversation. Seborga seemed fine with it saying: ‘It’s kind of weird, but okay’, and that was it until a few days later. The kid literally pounced his unsuspecting brother in the kitchen one afternoon when he was making himself a cup of espresso, and started going on about something or other. The older had no fucking clue what the hell he was talking about until the crazy little redhead shoved Romano’s own phone into his face saying that he and ‘Signor England’ look really cute together. 

It wasn't until he managed to finally detach the happy little country, and take a look at what was on the screen that he realised what the idiot was talking about. France had sent him a couple of pictures from when Romano had been staying at the island nation’s place back in the summer. At first he couldn't make sense of what he was looking at, or why the hell Seborga was so happy about it. It was just France taking an obnoxiously posed selfie, but there hardly noticeable in the background were England and Romano sitting out on the grass of England’s main lawn enjoying the gentle heat of the early evening sun. 

Seborga is naturally energetic. Not as much as Veneziano, but the constant shit that tumbles out of the younger country’s mouth is so irritating the older Italian can hardly resist the urge to strangle the kid just to shut him up most of the time. Threats don't work on him either. Seborga’s too fucking dense, or he acts it, either way Romano had no choice but to listen to the brat ramble on about how great it is that England is such good friends with Romano, because Seborga is also good friends with ‘Little Sea’ and ‘Miss Wy’, and ‘Hutt River’, and how cool is that, because ‘Signor England’ is a pretty good guy even if ‘Little Sea’ thinks he’s a jerk because he won't recognise him as a real country. They’re all relatives of England’s he later found out. Just how many ‘kids’ does the bastard have? Seriously, and he thought Spain has problems. 

His brother continued to ramble, and Romano tuned him out too distracted by the way the kid’s curl wiggles and bounces around whenever he gets excited. It doesn't matter how many times he sees it the whole ‘hair curl phenomenon’ still weirds him out, especially since he has one of his own. Many of the nations have them, but they don't fucking move or change shape on their own like they’re alive or something. Only the Italian’s curls seem to do that, and it’s fucking freaky. 

It was only when the kid mentioned about how great it would be if they could all hang out together one day that Romano finally started listening to him again. ‘Little Sea’ doesn't get to see ‘Signor England’ much, and Seborga never got to see Romano until recently which sucked, so it’d be cool if they could all meet up. Maybe he could even bring Wy, and Monaco too if they’re not busy - he zoned out again getting lost in his own thoughts. He felt fucking guilty, because the kid is obviously lonely, and Romano is his brother - his oldest brother, so feeling sorry for the brat the older Italian swore to be nicer to him, or at least try. It lasted all of two minutes, because Seborga just doesn't shut up, and Romano has an insanely short temper. He lost it, and grabbed Seborga’s irritatingly crooked curl until he begged to be let go, and apologised for taking Romano’s phone swearing to never do it again.

It starts raining again, and olive green eyes glance out of the window feeling pensive as he watches the rainfall bounce off the outside of the glass still hoping that maybe today England will finally reply to one of his texts. Opening up his photos he smiles down at one image the island nation had sent him last month. The blond seemed quite cheery as he shared a picture of himself sat in a little cafe hiding away from the bitter autumn cold with a steaming hot drink sitting invitingly on the table in front of him. A small caption of ‘Bit chilly today’ tagged at the bottom of the image. His oversized scarf and winter coat drowned the pale man making him look like a marshmallow, and Romano had to wonder if it wasn't still a bit too early to be wrapped up in such thick winter clothes, but it was probably colder at the blond’s place than it was in Sicily. England’s nose is red in the picture, his usually pale cheeks flushed from the cold, and his unkempt hair scattered in all directions worse than it usually is. He looks ridiculous, but the Italian saved the image in his ever growing gallery of photos anyway. It’s one of the most fucking adorable things he’s ever seen. The blond’s smile never fails to cheer him up, and he always ends up smiling like an idiot himself everytime he sees it. 

The Englishman had sent the southern nation a few other photos he’d taken of various sights he’d found particularly interesting that day. Many of them featuring the dark burnt reds and oranges of the changing autumn leaves, or squirrels and robins readying themselves for the fast approaching winter. The squirrel's beady little eyes stare back at the Italian as he flicks through the pictures again, and he has to once again fight the urge to delete it. The only reason he hasn't is because in the corner of the picture probably unknown to the Englishman is a reflection of him biting his lip in concentration as he takes the photo through the cafe window. The Italian hadn't noticed it at first himself, until he caught sight of that unmistakable peridot green that seemed out of place with everything else in the picture. A cold shiver runs down his spine as looks up to lock eyes with the mocking gaze of the squirrel again. Che. He’s never liked those sneaky little fuckers. 

Surprisingly the island nation has quite the eye for composition, even if the Italian isn't overly fond of the chosen subject matter. All the photos are well framed, and the contrast in the bright autumn colours against the dreary whitewash London sky is strikingly bold. He’s not sure if the northern nation had planned them that way or if he’d just gotten lucky, but the pictures are nice regardless. As much as Romano had wanted to share a little bit of Sicily's autumnal beauty with the Brit he really didn't feel like going out with the cast on his foot at the time, or having to fumble around with the crutches as he struggled to balance and take pictures with his phone. He settled for just responding to the blond’s text with little bits of commentary on the photos instead. Naturally adding a snaky comment or two about how it was still a nice comfortable almost twenty degrees in Sicily hoping the Englishman would respond back with some sarcastic comment of his own. 

The reply still hasn't come, and for the past week the Italian has been glued to the sofa phone in hand at all times feeling like a wreck. He’s constantly anxious and apprehensive hoping to God his snarky attitude didn't somehow offend the blond into ignoring him. England hadn't seemed to mind his attitude when they were staying together. The bastard is just as ill-humoured and sarcastic as he is, but what if the younger nation was just being polite? He’s done enough research into the nation’s mannerisms to know that the English are completely contrary. They hardly ever say what they mean choosing to seem courteous and polite instead of voicing their true thoughts. In the rare event they actually do it’s usually not a good thing. Dammit. This is why he didn't want to get involved with other nations again. Especially not socially-awkward, contrary, marshmallow bastards like England. For the past few decades he’s lived a peaceful existent eating, sleeping, and lazing his way through life without too many worries, and now he’s stuck going through another load of fucking nation drama worrying about his brother, Spain, and the Tea-Bastard.

The very first text had come completely out of the blue only two days after he’d arrived back home after leaving the island nation. He remembers it clearly, because the sudden contact had been kind of surprising. There was no reason that the Italian could think of for why the blond would need to talk with him only two days after the Italian had left, but after actually reading the blond’s text it made sense. There was no ignoring the wave of excitement that bubbled up in his chest at the time as he opened the message, dammit. The blond had simply contacted him to say that Veneziano (and the fact that the Tea-Bastard had typed Veneziano - not Italy, still makes his heart skip a fucking beat even now) had received the report. He was also sorry about contacting the southern Italian so late at night, but he’d only just finished work. The younger nation was also glad to hear that Romano had arrived home safely, and wished him a swift recovery with his ankle. 

He didn't think about it until the next morning while he was eating breakfast with Seborga, but Spain must have told the blond after Romano had text the Spaniard to tell him he was fine. He’d still been trying his best not to think about the Englishman back then, and had made a point of purposefully not contacting the younger nation so he could hopefully try and forget about the alluring bastard. He’s not sure why he even bothered trying, because he’s pretty sure it’s impossible.

Speaking of the Tomato-Bastard. He’s been texting every couple of days or so. It’s usually never anything exciting. Just the normal small talk, and ‘hello, how are yous’ as always, but thanks to England’s sudden text the frustrated Italian can't help but get excited every time he hears his phone ‘ping’ now. Most of the time it’s Spain asking how he is, and if he’s feeling okay, or if he need any help with anything. He just responds to those messages automatically. Ignoring the stupid ones altogether while trying to push aside the stupid soul crushing disappointment that has him feeling bitter and angry. 

Spain still hasn't said anything about having any kind of feelings for the island nation, or even hinted at it, and that gives the Italian hope that he’s probably wrong about the whole thing, because if he isn't he’s not sure what the hell he’s going to do. He honestly can't stop thinking about the blond. He doesn't want to stop thinking about him either. He’s spent so much time just sitting around on his ass he’s starting to go crazy from the quiet and boredom. He needs something - anything to occupy his mind with, and England always proves to be quite an effective distraction. That’s probably what started off his ‘hobby’ of collecting England themed shit in the first place now that he thinks about it.

It’s been two weeks since then. Three weeks in total since he last heard from the blond, but finally a reply has come. It’s a cold, clear day, and as always he’s sprawled out on the sofa eating snacks once again bored out of his mind. He’s actually truly alone now though, because Seborga has gone back to his place to start preparing for Christmas. Which leaves Romano to care for himself for the next few weeks until his brace hopefully comes off. It’s not like he can't look after himself it’s just...His house has never seemed so empty. He can clearly hear people chattering on the street outside, but he’s been feeling pretty isolated and melancholy even since the kid left. He isn't in the mood to talk to anyone, even the Tea-Bastard, right now. After not bothering to reply for all this time only to suddenly get back in contact now...What the fuck? The blond must be messing with him. At least he isn't being ignored. That’s a relief. He stares up at his phone running his fingers along the edges of it. Here he is feeling fucking lonely, and he’s so fucking annoyed at being annoyed at being alone he doesn't feel like talking to anyone. Che. He runs his fingers apprehensively along the edges of his phone again, and finally opens the message.

Instead of the bitchy response he’d expected all he gets is an apology for the Englishman taking so long to reply. The blond has been busy with work, arguing with his brothers and his boss, and just having a ‘grand ol’ time as usual’. He hadn't had time to check his private phone recently. Well, okay that makes sense. He reads on. England also wants to know if the Italian has already made plans for the holidays since Veneziano is hosting the Christmas meeting this year. A lot of nations will be meeting up afterwards for the annual ‘Xmas’ party, and the blond wants to know if the brunet is planning on going or not. He hadn't even known his brother was hosting a meeting, and he automatically goes to tell the blonde ‘no, sounds like a pain in the ass’, but he hesitates fingers hovering uncertainty over the little onscreen keyboard. His phone pings. Another message from England.

‘ _I'm not 100% if I'm going myself yet._ ' Well that’s fucking -

‘ _I probably will. I really don't want to have to work during Christmas again this year._ ’ He’s not sure what the blond is trying to get at. Who the hell would want to work on their day off? Especially during a holiday. His brace should be off by then, and if he does go he’d get to see England, maybe, and Spain, and possibly even Belgium and Netherlands. There’d also be a hundred other assholes like the Potato-Bastard, and France there too. Che. It would be a good chance to talk to his idiot brother though, and maybe the little shit will finally consider giving him some real work to do - if Romano could get him tipsy enough before the German-Potato found out. Undecided he texts the bastard back.

‘ _Maybe, dunno. Sounds like a pain in the ass._ '

The response he gets back makes his heart swell, and his face flushes as he does his best not to drop his phone in disbelief. 

‘ _Well, if you do decide to go you’d best tell your brother soon, or all the hotels will be fully booked._ '  
‘ _I've heard rumours that he’s planning something rather spectacular for the party. I can't imagine what is will be, but I’m looking forward to it._ '  
' _Christmas only comes once a year after all. I hope to see you there._ ’ 

‘I hope to see you there.’ I hope to see YOU there. I want to see you. Fuck. Okay so the Tea-Bastard didn't actually say that, but shit, that’s what it means, right? He wants to see him. The flustered brunet re-reads the words again and again not believing they can be real, and in his euphoria he does something fucking stupid. He says he’ll go, but before he can really realise what he’s just fucking done the message is sent, and England texts back saying he’s happy to hear it. Fuck. He can't back out now. Shit. He throws his phone down onto the sofa watching in mournful silence as it bounces off the cushion, and hits the floor with a thud. Wait a fucking minute. ‘I’m looking forward to it’, ‘I hope to see you there’, doesn't that mean the bastard was already planning on going? Then why say he isn't sure? The hell? Something buzzing catches his ear and breaking his thoughts. His phone.

Disbelieving olive-eyes stare down at the little screen. The Tea-Bastard. The bastard is fucking calling him! Seriously?! It takes a second for the Italian to really process what he’s supposed to do, but once his mind finally starts working again he hastily scrambles to reach for the device accepting the call with trembling fingers. It’s a fucking good thing there’s no one around right now, because he can't stop fucking smiling as he listens to the Englishman’s voice greet him from the other end of the line. It sounds a little different on the phone. Slightly higher pitched, but it’s still unmistakably England. 

They talk for hours. First about the upcoming Christmas meeting, and their plans, or lack of plans in Romano’s case, for the holidays, and then about other things. Like the photos the blond had sent, and the cold arctic storm blowing down from Scandinavia that’s suddenly sent the island nation into a sudden overnight freeze. He’s not sure exactly when, but at some point the Italian loses himself in the blond’s voice, and blanks out from the conversation happy just to listen to the island nation talk. The Englishman’s accent is so soothing he can't help but feel calm listening to it. His back is warm from where he’s bundled up into the back of the sofa cushions his braced ankle propped up on another cushion to keep it elevated. Sitting like this is starting to give him cramp though, so he shuffles around trying to get comfortable again, and settles for sliding down a little to rest his head against the arm rest taking the pressure off his back while he listens to England ramble away to himself. 

A noise from down the line draws both of their attention, and then the other man asks him to hold on a minute, so he waits. “Ah, bugger. I need to sort this. Can I call you back in say, around twenty minutes? Is that alright?” 

“Yeah. Fine, Bastard. Go do whatever you’ve got to do.” ‘I’ll be here.’ He’s glad he didn't actually say that. Fuck. How stupid can he get? There’s a rushed thanks, and a ‘I won't be a tick’ from the Englishman before the line goes dead.

Twenty minutes.

Probably not long enough for him to make anything by the time he’s finally hobbled his way to the kitchen, but he should be able to grab a drink before the blond calls back. He sits up from the sofa the cool air hitting his skin giving him goosebumps as the blanket falls away. Pocketing his phone the Italian grabs the single crutch from the floor, and stands on his good leg using the arm rest to push himself up. The fucking asshole doctor had taken the other crutch away from the Italian after he’d found out the stubborn brunet had still been using them even after being sternly instructed not to unless it was necessary. Now he has no choice but to fucking walk on his busted foot. Not unless he suddenly learns to fucking fly.

Just walking from one room to another takes forever, but he manages somehow. It’s difficult to not spill his water as he makes his way back to the living room. His movements are awkward and jittery where he keeps trying not to put too much pressure on his ankle, and despite trying his best to stay as calm as possible the paranoid Italian only has half a glass of water left by the time he finally reaches the sofa again. Fuck. His hands are still shaking. It’s just a busted ankle. He’s been in far worse situations than this. Much worse. Sometimes so bad that he seriously thought he was going to die, but he’d always recovered just fine in the past. It makes no sense whe he's so panicky this time round from such a small injury. 

Snuggling himself back into a comfortable position nestled under his blanket he waits for England to call back wondering what the blond is doing. By the time the younger nation finally does call the Italian is already fast asleep. His phone ringing jars him from his nap, and for a second he’s got no idea what the hell is going on. He growls down the phone half expecting Spain or Seborga, but England doesn't seem to notice.

“Ah, Romano! Sorry about that. I had to finalise a few thing with Maurizio. So, as I was saying-” ‘Maurizio’? Who the fuck is that? Italian. Definitely. He tries to think of any bastards he might know named ‘Maurizio’, but draws a blank. He can't think of any bastards with a name like that. Nation or human. Someone Veneziano knows, maybe? If England knows them then they must be involved with government work, right? What the hell? It’s true the southern half-nation isn't up-to-date with all the government employees in Italy these days, but for the blond to call this guy ‘Maurizio’ by his first name so casually they must know each other quite well -

“Romano?” Shit.

“S-sorry, Bastard. What?” England starts laughing down the phone, and as much as he loves the sound it’s irritating when he’s fucking embarrassed at being caught zoning out like that. What the hell. It’s none of his business who the Englishman knows, or who he’s friends with. 

“Wh-what were you saying, Bastard?” Dammit. His face is on fucking fire. Why does this always happen when he’s talking to the blond nation? 

“I asked you if you have any clue on what sort of clothes would be appropriate for one of your brother’s parties.” If Veneziano’s organising it then the whole thing’s probably going to be insanely fucking glamorous. Crystal chandeliers and a fancy-ass orchestra (probably provided by Austria) or something over-the-top like that. Che. He really can't believe he told the bastard he’d go. It really does sound like a total pain in the ass. Wait, hold on a minute...Why is the blond even asking him?

“Bastard, doesn't it say on the invitation?” Veneziano might be useless when it comes to organising shit, but he knows from experience just how thorough his brother is when it comes to throwing get-togethers for nations. The little shit just loves showing off. Forgetting to add key information like wardrobe requirements just doesn't sound like Veneziano. There’s silence from the other end of the line. Maybe the blond has gone to look for his invitation to check? He can't hear any movement though just more silence.

“Tea-Bastard?”

“...Yes?”

“Did you check the invitation? It should say on there.” More silence.

“Well, actually. The thing is...I may-” What the hell? The blond is rambling. “-not have received a formal invitation.” ...What? The bastard wasn't invited then? What the hell?

“So, what, Bastard? You were just planning on gate-crashing it?” There a sputtering noise from the blond's end of the line. Fuck. He wishes he could see the man’s face right now. It must be hilarious.

“Do-don't be ridiculous. As a gentleman I would never stoop to doing something so low. The very idea of doing such a thing is utterly-!” Yeah, right. He doesn't believe the man for a second. The idea of gate-crashing one of his brother’s stupidly pompous parties sounds kind of fun though, and technically even though he’s the bastard’s brother, and a part of Italy himself Romano’s not actually been invited either, so him turning up would be considered gate-crashing too, right? Fuck, now he’s actually kind of looking forward to it.

“Well, Bastard, I’ve not been invited either, so-” Fuck why is he suddenly so nervous? “-we could go gate-crash it together. If-if you want.” Dammit. Please say ‘yes’. Fuck, please say ‘yes’. If the bastard turns him down he’s going to fucking die of embarrassment.

“I bloody told you it’s not - you’re not planning on going with Spain?” With Spain? Why would he go with the Tomato-Bastard? The moron would only draw the attention of any potentially interested ladies away from him. That, and the bastard had never even said anything to the Italian about the party in the first place, so no. Fuck him. He’s probably already going with Belgium or France anyway.

“No.”

“Oh. Is that so? Well, I suppose in that case as fellow nations there shouldn't be any problem if we go together.” ‘As fellow nations.’ What the fuck is with that lame ass reasoning? It’s not like the bastard is obligated to go with him just because they’re both nations. It doesn't sound like the blond really wants to go with him either. Maybe he was hoping on meeting up with someone else, and doesn't want to appear rude by saying no since Romano had asked? He’d just be a third wheel, and that’d be fucking awkward as hell. Didn't the Pervert-Bastard say before that England and the fucking Macho-Potato have got a thing for each other? Shit! If that’s the case he doesn't want to fucking go at all. 

“If you want, Bastard.” What the hell is he saying? He doesn't want to go if he’s going to have to be stuck watching England and the fucking Potato-Bastard be all over each other all night. He really wants to see the Englishman though. All dressed up in a well-tailored suit would be nice. Oh, right, that’s what the blond had called for in the first place. To ask the Italian’s advice on what to wear. 

He changes the subject quickly telling the younger nation about Veneziano’s usual party preferences, and recommends some various styles (all Italian of course) that would probably (definitely) look good on the blond’s slender frame. By the time England excuses himself to quickly grab a quick ‘cuppa’ the excited Italian is busy trying to visualise the perfect colour to compliment the blond’s pale skin tone. While Romano usually prefers a suave fitted black suit and tie it just doesn't match the blond’s ‘gentlemanly’ persona, so something a little more last century would be good. Grey is out, except for maybe a really light shade that wouldn't look too drab against the blond’s golden hair. Fuck. He’s so inspired he can hardly contain it. Maybe a light brown? Tan could work, or taupe. A stylish but traditional three piece with a double breasted waistcoat would definitely give the blond’s outfit a ‘gentlemanly’ air, and it’s more of a classic English style. Perfect for the island nation. 

As much as he’d love to try out some Italian styles on the blond if the bastard is going to draw attention to himself simply by being at a party he wasn't actually supposed to be at he might as well turn some heads dressed in attire that accentuates his own natural English style. Now the Italian just has to decide on the design for the lapels on the waistcoat, or maybe - yeah. No lapels will add a more modern flair to an otherwise very traditional look. A crisp white shirt is obviously necessary. The difficult part is deciding on the shoes, tie, and accessories.

When England returns the Italian has already got the entire outfit almost completely planned in his mind. The bastard is going to look amazing. He knows it. Unexpectedly the blond only grumbles saying that Romano’s vision sounds far too flashy for a one time event. The bastard is fucking lucky they’re speaking on the phone, because if the brunet had actually been there he would have throttled the asshole. What the fuck does he think this is? A family dinner party? He very ‘calmly’ states his point, and the Englishman sighs.

“This is all starting to seem very impractical, and expensive.” Yeah well, what does the blond expect? Looking good isn't cheap, especially when it comes to showing up Veneziano. He’s going to make the Brit look so fucking good, every single nation that lays eyes on the blond will be awed by how gorgeous the bastard is...will be. Dammit. 

It’s gone two in the morning, and he’s exhausted, but hopefully he’s finally starting to get somewhere in getting the blond to see things from his perspective. Or not. His laptop is upstairs, so he’s not been able to check out any possible designs and brands himself, but England has apparently been browsing around, because the entire time they’ve been talking the blond has interrupted the conversation every now and then with complaints about unnecessary expenses, and grumbles of ‘Bloody hell. How much?’. He would have never guessed the Brit to be so frugal judging from his fancy manor house in York, but he knows from years of disagreements with Spain just how little importance some nations place on their clothing choices. The Tomato-Bastard wasn't always like that. Actually, at one time both England and Spain were both known for their high-end fashions rivalling even France. Seriously, what the hell happened? 

More importantly how the hell is he supposed to get around this? He can already tell the Englishman is getting annoyed, but if the island nation turns up wearing something ugly and outdated he knows exactly what’ll happen. He doesn't want the bastard to set himself up to be ridiculed, but he doesn't know how to get his point across to the blond without upsetting the man either. Fuck. Maybe he should just drop the subject, and try again some other time. It’s late, and the bastard is probably just as tired as he is. 

“Don't you think this kind of design is a little too highbrow for a simple Christmas do? Wouldn't a simple shirt and tie be fine?” 

“If I thought that I would have said so.” They’re going around in circles. There’s a deep sigh, a clatter, and then a groan and a ‘thump’, and then another groan. He can hear England talking, but his voice sounds far away, so the bastard has probably dropped the phone. That would explain the clatter he heard. There’s a second very well pronounced voice speaking clearly enunciated ‘Queen’s English’ in the background. He can't hear what’s being said, but whoever the bastard is judging simply from his accent he sounds even more stereotypically ‘English’ than the Tea-Bastard. 

“-mano? Ah, there we go. I hope you don't mind, I've put you on speaker.” ...Right. 

“Whatever, Bastard.” England scoffs, and then continues. 

“Maurizio, this is the one I mentioned to you before -” That guy again? It’s gone one in the morning at England’s place. Who the hell is this guy to be with the bastard so early in the morning? He’s so pissed off that there’s some mystery guy at the Englishman’s place at such a strange hour that he puts aside his annoyance at the fact that the blond had asked him for his fucking advice only to not want to take it. “-so, what do you think?” 

“I believe it would suit you very well, Sir.” Obviously not the answer the other nation wanted to hear, but he feels vindicated regardless. His sense of style is fucking unparalleled. It’s a miracle this bastard ‘Maurizio’ is there, because England is obviously more fucking hopeless than the southern Italian could have ever imagined. ‘A simple shirt and tie’ for one of Veneziano’s parties? It works for him, but that’s because the Italian knows how to accessorise the outfit to make it work for him. The Tea-Bastard really hasn't got a clue. There’s a difference between ‘smart-casual’ (emphasis on ‘smart’ when Veneziano’s concerned - pfft) and ‘can't be ass’d’. It’s no wonder his brother complains about the blond's almost criminal lack of fashion sense so often. 

“See? I told you, Bastard.” 

“Fine, then. I’ll get the bloody suit.” The Englishman mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘bloody Italians’ and something else he didn't catch, but before he can rip into the bastard for being a dick he realises what the blond had said only moments before.

“Wait. Hold on. Don't buy anything yet!”

“Shit! Bollocks, Romano. Don't shout so suddenly! I almost dropped my tea!” Shit. He apologies, and shuffles around on the sofa a couple of times trying to cover his toes with the blanket. The early morning temperature is dropping, and his feet are starting to get cold. 

He’s hungry, and exhausted, but after another hour of stubborn protests England promises to share his possible outfit choices with the Italian via email before committing to anything. ‘Maurizio’ assures the sceptical brunet that the Englishman is in good hands, and that between them they will surely find the perfect suit for the blond to wear regardless of said nation’s reluctance to ‘shell out’ for it. England will most definitely shine at the party. ‘Maurizio’ will see to it himself. He doesn't fucking doubt it. The mysterious bastard sounded more excited by the idea of dressing the English nation up than Romano did. He’s more concerned about the mysterious bastard’s familiarity with the blond than the possibility of the Tea-Bastard embarrassing himself at the party right now though. 

The fact that ‘Maurizio’ had called England ‘Sir’ makes it obvious the bastard probably works for the blond nation in some way, but who the hell stays at work until 2AM just to help their boss choose a suit for a party? Unless he’s a butler like in one of those old-fashioned TV dramas, or a housekeeper or something. That would make sense. If that’s the case he feels sorry for the mysterious bastard having a boss like England who keeps him working at such an insane hour in the morning. That’s just fucking cruel. It’s easy to tell ‘Maurizio’ is extremely fond of his ‘employer’ just by the way he speaks to the blond, and as a ‘fellow nation’ Romano’s not sure how to fucking feel about it.

Fuck. He tells (shouts at) England that he’s going to sleep, to not fucking buy anything without consulting him first, and then hangs up tossing his phone to the end of the sofa not even giving the other nation a chance to respond. Getting jealous over a fucking civilian. He’s pathetic. A civilian with unrestricted access to the blond everyday of the year, twenty-four hours a day. God, this is stupid. So fucking stupid. At first it was the German-Potato, and then Spain, and now this bastard ‘Maurizio’. Dammit his eyes are stinging from being so tired, and his fucking head hurts.

Closing his eyes the exhausted nation tries to clear his mind. Getting upset over something as stupid as the bond between a nation and civilian is fucking stupid. A loud growl catches his attention, and then another. Great now there’s some fucking cats fighting outside. He’s so tired, but he should probably get something to eat first. He’s not had anything since the afternoon - yesterday afternoon, now, dammit. No wonder he’s fucking cranky, but the kitchen is all the way over there, and the air is cold, but the sofa’s nice and warm. He’s not moving. Now if the cats outside would shut the hell up he could happily just curl up and go to sleep.

There’s no sign of rain, the sky is clear, and the air is crisp. Perfect weather to go out and do a bit of shopping. Not that he had much of a choice, but walking around so much is also really hurting his foot. Easing his way back up the steps the Italian slowly slides his body along the wall of his house pressing up against the cool stone to keep himself from accidentally falling sideways over the edge of the uneven steps. Reaching the porch he juggles with the shopping bags and his keys, and cracks the door open just an inch peering cautiously inside the gap. Sure enough the Italian spots a pair of furious emerald eyes glaring at him with murderous intent from the other side of the threshold. 

Using the wall in front to balance on his good foot the Italian pokes the crutch inside the crack in the doorway to try and keep his furious houseguest from lunging at him the moment he opens the door, but she’s having none of it, and swats at the metal pole ears flat against her head yowling as menacingly as she can with two newborn kittens dangling by their scruffs from her mouth. The mother’s violently swishing tail clearly expressing her rage at being ‘rescued’ from the plastic fruit crate the Italian had found her hiding under. Her plain tabby coat is marred with dark splotches of dried blood entire tufts of brown and white completely missing in several places around her throat and neck. The brunet had found it all over the courtyard when he’d stepped out to get some air earlier that afternoon. She’s lucky he did, because if he hadn't seen it he would have never found her, and who knows what kinds of nasty infections she could have picked up if she’d been left to wander around with so many open wounds. None of them are particularly deep. Only the puncture on her head by her mottled ear is still weeping now, but she’s far too weak to defend herself or her kittens, even if she doesn't realise it. 

She’s young and bold continuously lashing out, and trying to scratch him every chance she gets. She barely has enough meat on her to make it through the winter though, let alone while producing milk for her constantly hungry little ones, but being a cat she can't understand his intentions. The nation is trying to help them, but she doesn't see it that way. She’s been dragged from her hiding spot; a place she felt safe and secure, and has ended up in unfamiliar territory that smells like the ‘predator’ that caught and left her there. A feeling he knows all too well from bitter personal experience. It’s no wonder she’s angry, but hiding away in a little crevice in a wall somewhere is not a safe place for her or her kittens right now, and Romano’s in no fit state to be going up and down the slippery courtyard steps every five minutes to check up on the three of them. There’s simply too many risks in just leaving them be and hoping for the best, so really he had no choice. 

She’s already got caught up in one fight. Placing bowls of food out will only entice others to come and try to take over her territory. For now taking the three of them in is the best solution he can offer. When she’s stronger, and the kittens bigger (their eyes aren't even open yet) he’ll have them all neutered, and then release them back outside when the weather’s warmed up a bit. There’s no way she or her little babies are strong enough to make it through the bitterly cold nights right now. He’s just glad he bothered to pay out for a licence all that time ago. The last thing he needs on top of everything else is a fine for ‘abducting’ an animal of the state, yet despite being a registered cat guardian he knows better than to expect any assistance in paying for any of the veterinary visits his furry ‘tenants’ are going to need. 

Right now the biggest issue he has to overcome is getting inside without accidentally letting his very unhappy ‘houseguest’ escape. She’s insecure. Trying to protect herself and her babies from what she sees as a threat to their safety. The furious feline is hunkered down on the floor while lashing out at anything unfortunate enough to be within her reach. He’s careful not to dislodge the kittens with the crutch as he pokes it through the gap in the doorway again. The last thing he wants is for her to abandon them in favour of fleeing, so he taps the floor in front of her making the rubber bounce off the terracotta tiles and rattle the cheap aluminium pole. Eventually she relents choosing to flee back inside instead of fight, and sulks backwards still yowling and tail swishing rapidly as she shrinks away into the kitchen. 

The bags of cat litter are heavy, so he opens the door a bit wider, and throws them both inside hoping the loud noise will spook the cat into staying in the kitchen long enough for him to enter and securely close the door. It works, and he quickly steps inside using his back to push the door shut behind him. He feels bad about possibly scaring the already frightened animal, but he can't risk her getting any bright ideas about trying to escape again. She’d almost gotten out once through the living room window, and the nation had to very quickly grab her by the tail (he still feels fucking bad about that, but it was the only part he could reach in time) to stop her from jumping, possibly to her death, down onto the solid cobblestone ground below. He’s fucking glad she didn't drop either of the kittens out the window from the shock of having her tail grabbed. That would have been fucking awful.

Leaving the bags of litter laying in the passageway the brunet steps around them to head towards the living room. The rough hessian of the shopping bags hanging from his arm swings from the movement chafing his skin in the process. Placing the supplies down on the sofa he prays to God he’s got everything he needs, because he isn't going out again until he has no other choice but to. He sits down to unpack the bags when he spot a shadow moving in the entryway out the corner of his eye. It was kind of weird, but he shakes it off reasoning it was probably the cat, and goes back to what he was doing. Food, food bowls, a litter tray, litter (still out in the hall), a water dish, and a comb thing for getting rid of fleas. He’s not sure he’ll be able to even get close enough to the grumpy cat to even use it, but the girl in the veterinary clinic had given it to him, so he may as well try.

‘Set up a nesting area in a quiet place away from anyone, and leave her and the kittens alone, except to change the bedding, food, and water.’ That’s what the girl had said. There’s no shortage of ‘quiet places’ around his house since it’s only him, but where would be best? Somewhere he can keep an eye on them easily where he won't need to go far to fetch clean blankets and fresh food. He thinks about it for a minute not wanting to waste time to set everything up only to find the spot is no good for his three ‘guests’, and then have to move everything again. The kitchen and living room are no good. He goes in and out of the two rooms quite a lot at the moment, and the noise from the laundry machines would probably just irritate her, so the passage leading to the side patio is no good either. 

He has to go upstairs to sleep, shower and change, but other than for those things he doesn't use the upstairs rooms much. Going up and down to care for the three cats would be a pain in the ass though, so definitely somewhere downstairs. Trying to find an ideal place to set up the ‘nursery’ isn't as simple as he thought it was going to be, dammit. There’s loads of little hide away places outside, but putting her out would completely defeat the point in bringing her in. The only other place is the ‘office’ space on the opposite side of the house. It’s full of boxes, and junk from when he first moved in that he still has to sort through eventually, but - no. If she goes and shits in there somewhere he’d have to drag everything out to just find and clean it up. Che. Maybe he should just set her up in the living room. As least then he could keep an eye on her easily, and change all the bedding, food and water pretty quickly too. Fuck it. That’ll do. As long as she’s eating and resting enough to raise the kittens and look after herself that should be fine right? 

It doesn't take long to set up the ‘bed’. He’d dragged an old empty moving box from the office, flattened it out, and placed it in the corner by the far wall away from the doorway. Getting the blankets down from the closet had been irritating. He’d wanted to just throw them down the stairs, and collect them when he got down himself, but the falling bundle hitting the tile floor would probably just spook the cat even more. Not being left much of a choice the brunet carried the blankets while trying not to fall down the stairs depositing them in a lump on the flattened cardboard after making it back to the living room in one piece. With the food and water set up close by to the bed the ‘nursery’ is almost complete. He just needs to set up the litter tray, and then it’s all done. He places it by the opposite wall clearly visible from both the ‘nest’ and the sofa. Now he just has to hope the mother cat uses it. He’s got no clue on how to house-train a cat, but from everything he's read he hopefully shouldn't need to. Regardless of his inexperience with raising pets he wants to do everything he can to make sure the three are comfortable while they're staying with him. He's proud of his achievement, even if it isn't particularly amazing. As long as the mother recovers, and the kittens grow up healthy then everything’s served its purpose, and the time and money he’s spent will have been worth it. 

Coaxing the skittish feline out of her hiding spot behind the planter by the patio doors wasn't as hard as he thought it was going to be. The Italian had expected aggressive hissing and a violently swishing tail as soon as he stepped into the room, but the cat was far too interested in the dish of food in his hand to feel like being argumentative. In a way it was good, because he didn't have to try and force her out and cause her anymore stress, but at the same time the Italian can't help but feel sorry for the young cat. For her to so willingly chase after someone she only recently found to be a huge threat to her and her kittens she must have been really hungry, but with her stomach full and her two little ones safely snuggled into the ‘nest’ her beautiful emerald eyes are now once again fixated on the Italian. She’s not yowling at him right now, so that’s an improvement. 

According to the internet: ‘The simplest way to settle an unfamiliar cat into a new environment is to ignore it.’ Sounds easy enough. It’s not though, because she just keeps staring. Even when he’s not looking at her he can feel her hateful gaze staring him down from across the room. All this research is only making him feel worse, because from everything he’s reading the cat clearly hates him, even though he only wants to help her. He has to keep reminding himself that really it doesn't matter if she hates him or not. Eventually she and the kittens will be back on the streets where they belong, and as angry as it makes him to think it having a distrust of humans will probably keep her and the kittens alive in the long run. 

A low growl catches his attention as he places his phone down on the floor beside the sofa. He doesn't need to be a cat expert to realise he’s being warned not to move. He lifts his arm slowly back onto the sof. The low warning grumbles accompanied by flattened ears and dilated eyes focused directly on the Italian. 

Great, now he’s being held hostage in his own fucking house.

By a fucking cat. 

He sighs earning him another hiss and a low growl. It really does sound like she’s saying ‘I don't like you’ everytime he hears it. He decides to take a nap. Maybe if he’s sleeping she won't feel so threatened or something. It takes a while to tune out the constant hum of low grumbles, but eventually he drifts off just barely registering that the growls have stopped before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos are always loved and appreciated! Hopefully the next part will be up by Christmas, but I'm making no promises.
> 
> Happy Holidays!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I just really want to apologise for how long it's taken to update this story! This year has been kind of crazy for me. My house caught fire on New Year's Eve, and the heatwave this summer has kept me so busy I just haven't had time to sit down and write (my work shifts are determined by the weather).
> 
> For some reason I also didn't get any e-mails from AO3 until a week or so back. They all just dropped on my phone at once. I am so very sorry to everyone who thought I just up and abandoned this story. That's not the case! Definitely not the case. Ever. The break from writing has actually given me loads of ideas, and I'm super inspired! So, please know there will be more updates in the future. I just can't guarantee how soon or how long they will take.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos. It means the world to me that you're enjoying this story as much as I love writing it!

They’ve been at this for the past two hours. It’s a miracle they haven't been caught, but the fact that it’s a good couple of degrees below zero probably has something to do with that. Yet, despite the obvious layer of snow and blistering arctic temperature he’s somehow managed to wind up outside in nothing but a thin dress shirt and trousers having just lost his jacket to the infernal clutches of the razor wire above his head like an absolute twat. The icy wind is ripping the heat right out from his body chilling him to the bone, and it isn’t doing much for his concentration either. The perimeter fence really isn't that tall, but in his frozen half paralysed state it’s doing a bloody good job of keeping the Englishman out. “...Bloody hell, it’s cold.” A cloud of steam wafts past his eyes as he blows on his frozen fingertips. He’s pretty sure he’s lost all feeling in his fingers at this point. Shaking so his hands the Brit does his best to get his circulation flowing again.

“No shit. Hurry it up, Bastard. I’m freezing.” Romano’s constant complains are pressing on his very last nerve. They have been for the last hour actually, and he’s just about had it with the Italian’s snark. He already feels like a wanker for getting himself into this predicament in the first place, but the brunet’s lack of moral support is really testing the limits of the Englishman’s patients. One more bitchy comment, and the blond swears he’s going to drag the infuriating arse through the fence and throttle him.

“Would you shut it? You’re not the onl- Bloody hell! Prussia, stand still!” There’s nothing he can do but flail around on the albino’s shoulders as the nation below him struggles to keep the blond balanced. Thankfully this time the older nation manages to right himself, and not send both exhausted nations crashing to the dirt for what would be the fourth, no, fifth time that evening.

“Come on, Cher. Just a little further!” France is only there to torment him. He’s sure of it. Revealing in the Englishman’s misery with absolutely no interest in actually trying to help in any way at all. At least he isn't trying to record the impending disaster anymore, the bloody twat, but that’s only because the arse’s phone had died over an hour ago thanks to the cold. A small miracle at best, but a much welcome one nonetheless.

“Here’s an idea. Instead of standing there like a prat why don't you come over here and he-”

“Guys! Be quiet! It’s West.” Romano hits the ground like lightning trying to hide himself between the evergreen bushes running along the fence line and the fence itself. France quickly follows suit hunkering down beside the brunet, and Prussia the poor bastard can only freeze in place like a deer in headlights. Panicked most likely, but it’s not surprising given the predicament they’re in. There’s not much the albino can do with the blond balanced so precariously on his shoulders, and there’s nothing on this side of the fence to hide behind anyway. Romano pushes some of the foliage aside not looking too pleased with what he sees. He himself glances over following the line of the Italian's eye. Bloody hell! It is Germany. Fucking perfect. As if this evening wasn't bad enough already.

The German nation is patrolling the grounds like some kind of sentry clearly looking for something (or someone) in particular. He can only hope to God the Kraut isn't looking for one of them. Well, it’s obviously not going to be him. The Englishman’s not even supposed to be here. Most likely it’s Romano given that his brother is the one hosting the party, but it could also be Prussia. Speaking of the albino. How did he even see his brother from down there? Even from his position on the Prussian’s shoulders the Brit had only just been able to see the younger blond from over the hedgerow. Not that it really matters. The more immediate issue now is trying to figure out what they’re supposed to do if they are in fact seen.

“What is he doing?” 

“How the fuck should I know, Tea-Bastard?”

“Don't fucking start. I swear Romano if you so much as fucking dare to start com-”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole.” That’s it. He’s fucking had it. He doesn't care how cold the Italian is. It’s no excuse for him to be acting like such a prick. After all, there’s nothing stopping the brunet from simply going back inside if he’s truly that cold. The Englishman is stuck out here for the time being. He’s the one who should be bloody complai- Bloody hell. Look at the idiot. The Italian is half frozen face flushed and teeth chattering as he clutches at his suit jacket. There’s no sense in the brunet staying out here if he’s that cold. Now he feels like an arse. This is bloody ridiculous. The two of them are out here in the freezing cold snapping at each other like children, and for what? So he can sneak into a party he wasn't even sodding invited to. 

It's not all on him though. Unlike most nations who would wisely avoid trying to antagonising the Englishman in his frustrated state Romano seems to be getting a kick out of pushing the blond’s buttons at the moment. The only reason he can think of is that the Italian is still pissed off at him for turning down his invitation for going out for coffee together earlier that afternoon. Given the circumstances at the time he’d thought that would of been for the best. He hadn't been mentally or emotionally prepared to deal with the inevitable fallout that was sure to come should he say or doing anything that could flare up the brunet’s fiery temper. 

Despite being completely overwhelmed and exhausted from the meeting the Englishman had tried to be as polite as possible when he refused the Italian's offer. He’s never been good at socialising to begin with, and he honestly hadn't expected Romano to invite him out in the first place. That’s probably the part that rattled him the most. It had been so totally unexpected. No one would believe him if he told them Southern Italy of all nations had invited the Englishman out for coffee completely out of the blue. The brunet hadn't even been at the meeting, so the Italian had to have quite literally gone out of his way to go all the way to the parliament building just to invite the island nation out. Unless of course he was there to speak to his brother. Admittedly that makes much more sense, but the fact that Romano with his sour antisocial reputation had bothered to ask him out was a bit of a shock. 

It stirred up so many conflicting feelings in him that at the time the only thing the blond could think to do was politely decline the Italian’s invitation, and then get out of there as quickly as possible. The event had left him feeling angry, and disappointed in himself. On the one hand it would have been nice to catch up with the half-nation, but on the other he really had been too tired to want to go out at all.

“Now now, there’s no need to fight-.”

“-Oh shut it, you useless tosspot. I’ve had just about enough of you as it is.” He’s about to give the Frog an earful when he feels the albino wobble below him. “Bloody hell, Prussia!!” It’s difficult to sound assertive when you're freezing numb, and trying not to draw attention to yourself, but he’s sure his tone alone has got the message across. The Brit reaches for the branch above his head finally managing to grab hold of it thanks to a sudden surge of panicked adrenaline, and only just in the nick of time too by the looks of it. A second later, and Prussia drops to the ground. His tired legs having most likely given out from trying to hold the Englishman up for so long. Well...Bugger. What are they supposed to do now? He needs to stop worrying over the situation with Romano, and focus on trying to think of an escape route just in case Germany decides to come over and investigate. That being said, it’s not particularly easy to think when you're hanging from a tree with your legs flailing precariously close to a coil of razor wire. 

Prussia tries to hide himself behind the tree trunk, but it’s a fairly useless disguise with his silver hair and pale skin. The nation is practically glowing under the bright winter moonlight. He knew this was a stupid idea from the moment the albino had first suggested it.

“Merde. Act natural. He’s coming this way.”

Oh, yes. Fucking fantastic idea, France. He would have never considered that himself. Fucking idiot. Act natural he says. “Do you even hear yourself when you speak? ‘Act natural’. If you haven't noticed, I’m a little busy at the moment, you bloody twat!” Right now he’s not sure what he was thinking even agreeing to such a stupid plan. Why on Earth did he ever think for even a second that this could possibly work? Especially considering it had been Prussia’s idea to begin with. The blond scrambles to hoist himself up onto the branch so that he’s sitting on it, and climbs higher, until the branches are too thin to support his weight, and he can't go up any further. Hopefully he’s up high enough to be out of view. The group of nations watch on in silence as the German makes his way over, but with no foliage on the branches to hide him it would only take a single glance upwards for the man to spot the Brit up the tree. If he hasn't seen him already. Bloody hell. His nerves are shot. He’s going to need a drink, or five when this is all over.

“What are you three doing?” Bollocks. He knew they were going to get caught eventually. Bloody Prussia and his ‘awesome ideas’.

“Oh, hey, West. What’s up?” Everyone goes quiet. They’re fucked. Totally fucked. Of all the nations to get caught by it had to be Germany. The Englishman had up until now been very cautiously avoiding the man ever since their rather disastrous ‘dinner date’ (if you could even call it that) a few weeks back. The last thing he wants is to be cornered by the younger nation when he’s in no position to be able to escape. By some miracle Germany hasn't seemed to have noticed the Brit up in the tree, instead his eyes are drawn to the bottles and cans scattered around in the snow by the bushes Romano and France are sitting in. Prussia lets out a laugh as the panicked Italian shoots the Frog a cautious sideways glance.

“Czech Republic mentioned she saw some ‘suspicious persons’ hanging around the perimeter. She asked me to take a look around, and secure the area. What are you doing, Brüder?” ‘Take a look around, and secure the area’.’ The younger blond really does sound like a sentry. 

“Kesesese. No point in hiding since you caught us. We’re just having a little drinking party. Hey, why don't you join us, West? There’s a can over there with your name on it.” Is he insane? The last thing they need right now is for the younger nation to make himself comfortable. This whole night has been a disaster, and it’s only just gone seven. The Frenchman passes Germany a can of something or other, and the Italian remains uncharacteristically quiet. Not that he’s complaining.

He throws the German a glare. He’s still rather angry about the sour events of their ‘date’. He could have stayed home and had an early night snuggled up by the fire, and maybe even caught up with a bit of telly. He hasn't had much time to relax lately, and spending an evening wrapped up in a blanket with his fluffy, non-judgmental companion nestled in his lap would have been a wonderful much needed change of pace. Instead, he’d spent the wintery night stuck in a ridiculously packed German restaurant in the centre of Berlin listening to the other nation criticise him for this, that, and the other. 

At first he tried to be patient reasoning with himself that perhaps the German nation was nervous, and simply didn't know what else to talk about other than work. Having been pre-warned by France that Germany is rather unused to the concept of dating and romance the Brit had chosen to tread lightly not expecting too much too quickly. He took the other’s lack of experience into great consideration. Being a true gentleman he had tried to be open minded and remain optimistic, but as the evening progressed it was becoming harder and harder to resist the urge to simply excuse himself to the bathroom and leg it through the window. Even after some very obvious prompting the ever stoic nation just didn't seem to get the hints the older blond was trying to drop. Every time the Englishman would change the subject to something - anything, unrelated to work the younger man would appear confused answering the older nation’s questions with short efficient comments before going right back to his criticisms. It’s not that he can’t accept criticism, but he’s been on the receiving end of it so much lately he’s tired of hearing it all, and to be frank he hadn't expected to be on the firing line in such an intimate setting.

The younger blond had seemed rather shy when he’s first proposed the ‘date’ to the Englishman at the last meeting loud enough for the whole of the EU to hear. It had been embarrassing - for the both of them given their current political turmoil, but he could ignore that, because the blush on the German’s cheeks was admittedly very endearing, and for the very first time since having met him he had gotten to see a softer side to the the usually stoic nation. It was incredibly unexpected, and turbulent politics aside he had no real reason to say no. Of course, had he known at the time that the northern Italian was interested in the German nation he would have turned the younger blond down right then and there. 

Germany had been ridged right from the moment the Englishman had arrived (five minutes early - so not to seem too eager, but all not to keep the ever punctual German waiting), and he didn't seem to relax at all as the night went on. Despite having been early himself Germany had already been waiting out in the cold with flowers in hand for the Englishman to arrive. That had been a good sign, and it gave the Brit a sense of eagerness from the other nation. It actually made his heart skip a beat. That was probably why by the time he’d finally gotten home he felt so bitter. He’d gotten his hopes up despite all the talks with himself on the train to not do exactly that.

All evening his thoughts had continuously fluttered back to the bouquet of flowers the German had presented him with shortly after the Englishman had arrived at their meeting spot. Carnations. Stunning ruby red carnations accented with deep green fern leaves and subtle white daisies. A deeply affectionate choice of flowers for a first date, and a beautiful contrast to the miserably dreary weather. It’s was a shame, because it was a truly stunning bundle, but the very sight of that particular flower made the Brit feel sick to his stomach. The Englishman appreciated the gesture, but by the end of the evening the once vibrant bouquet had been ‘accidentally’ crushed, battered, and then mysteriously lost while the Brit was on his way to catch the train home. 

Halfway through the dinner he had become so disheartened with how the evening was turning out he had to excuse himself to the bathroom just to try and make sense of what was going on. He knows he’s terrible for splurging out rubbish when he’s nervous, but there’s nervous, and then there’s damn right rude, and the Kraut had well and truly crossed that line many times over. He may not be that experienced with dating himself, but he’s fairly certain that socialising at dinner isn't supposed to make you feel like wanting to clamber through a window just to get it over and done with. He wondered if perhaps he had gotten a bit confused about the other nation’s intentions. He pondered on it for a bit while washing his face, but every possible conclusion he came to just made him feel worse. Legging it through the window had started to look more and more appealing by the second.

Trying to be an optimist for once the Brit put it down to the younger nation being nervous, so he stayed until the evening was over, but by the time he’d finally (finally) gotten home he couldn't have been happier the evening was finally over. Just a few hours with the younger nation had drained the life out of him, and he was left feeling upset and bitter over the fact that perhaps he had been mistaken over the other nation’s interest in him. Maybe his ‘date’ had only invited him out to ridicule him over work, and wasn't in fact interested in him in a romantic sense as the Englishman had been lead to believe. All in all the evening had been (for him at least) an absolute waste of time, and he vowed never to speak to the Kraut outside of work again if he could help it. Whatever it is Northern Italy sees in the German man, well he just can't see it himself.

“Britten, what are you doing up there?” Bollocks.

“Ah, Evening ol’ chap. Nice night isn't it?” Oh yes that sounded totally believable. The younger blond throws the Englishman a sceptical glance before turning to France with a sigh.

“Do I even want to know?” He’s surprisingly calm despite having just been caught stuck up a tree by the very nation he’s been actively avoiding for the past few weeks. As suspicious as this situation must appear Germany keeps glancing back to the spilled bag of cans and bottles. It would be a bloody miracle if the younger nation really thought they were just trying to sneak in the booze. It had been Prussia’s idea to buy it all in the first place - for that exact reason. Perhaps the albino nation isn't as crazy as the Brit had previously thought.

“Aww, c’mon, West! It’s Christmas Eve. Cut us some slack just this once? Have a drink and hang out with us for a bit.” There’s a moment of heavy silence, but eventually Germany lets out another sigh.

“I suppose, since it is Christmas it can't be helped.” 

“Awesome! That’s my little bro for you!” There’s a small murmur of something from Romano, but he doesn't hear whatever it was clearly enough to make out what the brunet had said. The Italian should be counting his blessing too, after all it had been his idea for the Englishman to try and sneak in in the first place. He’d only been joking when he mentioned it on the phone, but Romano had just gone with it putting a full plan into motion before he even knew what was happening. He really does need to figure out a way down though. Preferably without making an utter tit out of himself in the process.

“If anyone’s got any ideas on how the fuck we’re supposed to get the Tea-Bastard down from there, I’m listening.”

Prussia quickly chimes in. “Don't look at me. I'm done. Your turn, Fran.”

“Don't look at me.” Bloody useless Frog. “Maybe you should ask Germany. I'm sure with all those muscles getting dearest Angleterre down will be easy for him, oui?” As much as he doesn't like it he has to agree with the bearded pervert. In this situation relying on the Kraut is probably his best option. He could always try and jump. From this height he should easily clear the fence.

He takes another look at the fence again while the others deliberate amongst themselves. From this angle it doesn't appear to be too bad. He could...Should, make it provided he doesn't get snagged up on anything. Fucking hell. He used to be the King of the Seas for God’s sake. A swashbuckling pirate. He once boarded one of France’s vessels by jumping from the rigging of his own ship at twice the distance than this ruddy fence. It was also only a few decades ago he was scaling muddy trenches while dodging grenades and machine gun fire. Sod it.

“As much as I appreciate the concern, gents. I’m more than capable of getting myself down from here.” He bloody hopes so, otherwise this is going to be tremendously embarrassing. Before anyone can object he takes the leap fully expecting his legs to get shredded by the sharp wire barbs, or if he’s extremely unlucky he may even end up impaling himself on the pointed metal spears. Much to his own surprise he clears both the fence and bushes easily ripping his already torn jacket from the wire coils before landing somewhat gracefully on the snowy ground. France and Prussia give a cheer, and he can't help but smile and roll his eyes. Idiots. As if there was ever any doubt. Just who do they think he is?

“You couldn't have done that two hours ago, Bastard?” And there it is. The acidic sting that is Romano’s sardonic tongue. He doesn't grace the arse with a verbal response though he does ‘accidentally’ shake off the snow from his jacket on to Italian’s head. Ignoring the swears he opts to help France stand up from his spot on the frozen ground hands still shaking from the adrenalin rush and the cold biting at his skin. 

“That was very impressive. Have you resumed your training?” He freezes feeling awkward at the innocent question not knowing quite what to say. Prussia and France throw each other knowing grins, and he throws them each a glare for them to keep their mouths firmly shut. Poor Germany can only stand there not knowing what the two older nations are sniggering about. He feels sorry for the younger nation. There’s a lot of things he hasn't got a clue about - like the fact that England used to be a nefarious (albeit, very skilled and successful) pirate. It’s a fact he would rather prefer to remain just that; secret, especially from the likes of America. His guise as a privateer has worked well for him so far, and he would prefer to keep it that way. He has no intention of ever letting his former colonies ever find out the truth of how he amassed most of his great wealth and prestige. It’s something he and Spain have had to have many long aggravating ‘discussions’ about throughout the years. 

To his knowledge the wanker hasn't said anything, but he can never bring himself to ever fully trust the Iberian nation. Then again Spain probably feels the same way about him - after all, he has his secrets too. Some he’s sure the Spaniard would desperately like to keep out of public knowledge. A ‘Conquistador’; a faithful servant of the crown, his arse. The bastard revealed in the chaos of pillaging and conquering just as much as he did. If not more. ‘Though for Spain he’s sure the temptation came from the promise of gold, fortune, and lofty titles. For him it had always been so much more simple. It was the kick of adrenaline as he drew his sword, the thrill of felling his adversaries one by one until none remained. His lust for victory on the battlefield could probably even rival the Spaniard's in the bedroom. Every victory won, each enemy defeated, and every territory he conquered as he overpowered all those who dared challenge him was far more rewarding than any trinkets or crowns. 

They were young, foolish, and wild. France was too for a time, but he never seemed to quite have the same desire for exploration and conquest that he and Spain shared. The Frog was always much happier at home in Europe nestled up in his palaces than out on the rough and turbulent Atlantic tides. Bugger. Just thinking about it is making him restless. He needs some kind of excitement to break up his monotonous life. Something that’ll get his blood pumping for the first time in decades. A new chapter. An adventure. Now wouldn't that be something. 

It must all seem very outlandish and unbelievable to Germany when Veneziano tells him the tales of what his fellow Europeans were like back during their younger years. It must be difficult being so young compared to the rest of the continent. It’s a feeling he can somewhat relate to. France, Spain, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, North, Portugal, Denmark, Norway, Prussia - They all knew each other long before England had come along, and he often felt alone and isolated as a result during much of his childhood.

“Okay, so, now that dearest Angleterre is safely back on the ground what are we to do about Prusse?”

“It’s cool. I'll just go round front and meet you guys inside..”

“Now hold on a bloody minute. You’ll go ‘round front’? How are YOU on the bloody guestlist?”

“Kesesese. ‘Cause Lil Ita obviously loves the awesome me?” 

“So what you’re saying is that I'm apparently the only bloody nation on the entire planet who wasn't invited to this sodding party?” They all freeze at his clumsy admission. Bollocks. Each nation turns to look at the German’s reaction. The Kraut’s always been a stickler for rules. So much for telling Prussia to be careful. He’s just gone and bloody incriminated himself. France passes him his suit quickly changing the flow of the conversation before Germany can think too much about it.

“Britten.” Shit. Turning back to face the younger blond he honestly doesn't expect to see the ever straight-faced man smiling. “Don't cause Veneziano any trouble.” Well, bollocks. What’s he supposed to say to that? Tosser. His cheeks are on fire. 

France, and Prussia laugh their asses of as he makes an embarrassed march towards the back of the hotel. He gives France a worried glance concerned about the possibility of Germany ratting them out, but the Frenchman just smiles, and ushers him toward the back of the building. Romano follows behind leaving Prussia and his brother alone to collect the bottles and cans of scattered booze. An uneasy feeling settles in his stomach as he grips the handles of the paper bag in his hands tighter careful not to crease the suit hanging over his arm. They haven't even got inside yet, and there’s been so much trouble already. If they actually manage to get inside, and down to the party without someone dying it’ll be a Christmas miracle.

Much to his surprise getting inside was actually easier than he thought it was going to be. With the focus of the party going on in the main ballroom they were able to easily sneak in through a staff entrance completely unseen. Just as Romano had mentioned on the phone the hotel is extravagant. Spotless marbled walls and floors glisten under the soft candle light chandeliers hanging from the spackled ceiling. Of course their luck couldn't hold out for long. As soon as they made it to the first floor France quite literally ran into Belgium as she and Monaco were making their way around the corner towards the stairs. The three male nations eventually made it to the mens’ room after having evaded any trouble, though Belgium’s devilish grin as they walked past was rather unsettling. ‘Though thankfully it seemed to be directed to France and not himself. He always feels rather uncomfortable around Belgium. He’s never quite sure how to act around the woman. 

\---

So, here they are, standing around in their stuffy dinner suits waiting for the blond to finish changing. He’s excited. He can't wait to see how the man looks in his carefully chosen attire. After all the arguments and late night phone calls he hopes the finished result is worth all the effort both nations and that bastard Mauritzio had gone to. He’s still pissed at the bastard for turning him down for coffee earlier, but he’ll let it slide for now. The blond had seemed exhausted after the meeting, and he didn't want to push the younger nation if he wasn't feeling well. Standing around in the cold watching him fail to climb a fence for over two hours had been fucking annoying, but the Englishman had looked just as frozen and uncomfortable as he was, so as far as he’s concerned that’s probably a good enough punishment. He leans up against the tiles of the sinks listening intently to the sounds of rustling fabric, irritated grunts, and the occasional growl as the blond tries to change his clothes in the cramped toilet stall. 

“You okay in there, Tea-Bastard?” He can't help but tease the fucker. He shouldn't since the man already seems irritated, but he seriously can't stop himself from grinning as he imagines the idiot falling onto his ass into the toilet as he tries to pull up his trousers. That actually sounds like what just happened. Even France is smiling.

“Just peachy.” Doesn't sound it. Sarcastic bastard.

“Come now, cher. You’ve been miserable all afternoon. What’s wrong?” He’s been wondering that himself ever since he met up with the blond earlier. 

“I'm fine.” That doesn't sound convincing at all. The Frenchman scoffs not believing the lie either.

“Angleterre, mon cheri, tell me what’s bothering you? Unlike your fairies Frère has not yet acquired the power to read minds.” Wait...Fairies? There’s no fucking way France actually believes in England’s imaginary friends, right? No. He’s got to be trying irritate the younger blond or something.

“Are you bloody deaf? I told you it’s nothing. So, sod off.”

“For once, can we please have a civil conversation without you acting like a spoiled brat and shouting obscenities at me? It’s getting rather tiring after all these centuries.” Shit. He hadn't expected France of all nations to suddenly scold the island nation like a kid. That’s actually kind of funny. 

“Fuck-” The blond opens - more like slams the stall door into the tiled wall as he storms out. “-you, Frog-Face.” Oh, wow. He might be furious as hell right now, but god, the blond looks amazing. More than the Italian would have ever thought possible. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. His mind blanks out. He can only stare until France’s appreciative wolf whistling brings him back to reality. 

“Get it over with. I know I must look ridiculous. You know what? Just forget it. I’m going to change back.” 

“NON! Oh, mon cher! You silly thing. You look wonderful! Perfect! I must be in heaven for God to have blessed me with such a miraculous sight.” France’s stupid dramatics aside the blond really does look perfect. He just looks so...So English. Ugh, that doesn't even make sense, but he can’t find the words. The fitted waistcoat was definitely the right choice. It pulls the entire outfit together, and the blond’s choice of footwear actually compliments the suit. He’d been pretty fucking worried when the Englishman told him he’d already chosen them with consulting anyone first, but maybe he shouldn't have worried after all. The blond seems to have at least a basic understanding for style, at least when it comes to accessorising dinner suits. Maybe he’s not as hopeless as Veneziano made him sound. 

“Right...Well you can piss right off. I don't believe a word of it.” The Englishman turns to head back into the stall, but pauses to look at the Italian. Seeing the blond in those clothes with his scathing peridot eyes staring straight at him with such intensity is killing him. Seriously that suit has made the bastard go from ‘kind of attractive’ to ‘I've never seen anything so fucking sexy in my whole life’, and it’s too much for the brunet to handle right now. He could barely contain himself just talking with the other nation on the phone, but seeing him again wearing the clothes that Romano had specially chosen for him…Fuck. He wants to savour this moment forever.

“Tell me honestly. Do I look as stupid as I feel?” His mouth and brain shut down completely, and the only worlds that tumble out don't do the younger nation’s current appearance any justice at all.

“N-no, bastard. Looks good. I, ah, yeah, you look, fi-fine.” God, he looks more than fine. Way more than fine.

Another scoff. “Fuck off...Really?”

“Yeah.” Why the fuck is this so awkward? The blond is fucking blushing too, dammit. If only the fucking Pervert-Bastard wasn't here he might...make a move. Fuck, that’d be fucking dumb. He’s thought about doing it a million times already, but confessing down the phone had just seemed too insincere, but confessing in a hotel bathroom is probably fucking worse.

“...Oh, well, that’s-that’s good then. I mean I should bloody hope so with how much this all cost. I should also thank you I suppose for helping as much as you did, so thank you.” Fuck. He can't handle this. He’s so fucking cute with that adorable blush and insecure expression. So fucking cute. Too fucking cute. Fuck…Cute isn't even the right word, because the bastard looks sexy as hell, but fuck...The Italian’s face must be red, because he can barely contain himself. He’s not sure what the fuck this feeling is, but it’s overpowering, and he’s not sure what to fucking do about it, or how to try and express it without imploding. All he can do to stop himself from jumping the bastard right then and there is to cling on to the edge of the sink as he bites his lip and prays.

The Englishman makes his way over to the mirror to fix his tie gently sliding up beside the Italian. The glistening silver cufflinks on his sleeves sparkle brightly under the harsh fluorescent ceiling lights. The spotless silver compliments the blond’s pale complexion and acidic green eyes perfectly. He thought before that the former empire might look good in rich shades of red and gold like Spain, and he’s sure the bastard would look amazing, but green and silver definitely suit the younger nation better. He looks sharp and sophisticated, and just too fucking sexy for words. Shit. He needs to calm the fuck down. Why does this always happen whenever he’s around the island nation?

When the blond reaches up to attach the tie clip the Italian also takes note of the man’s watch - a pure leather strap carefully tanned, and a custom made clock face sporting a beautifully detailed rose at the centre matching the same design as on the cufflinks and tie clip. Obviously expensive all custom made to match, and the bastard had said he didn't want to have to pay anymore than he had to for this ‘one time event’. What a liar. 

“Okay, as beautiful as you already are, mon ange, Frère must do his best to fix that mop on top of your head. Turn this way.” He rolls his eyes, but the Englishman does as instructed facing the older blond with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It’s nice to see the island nation smiling again. The blond had been fine at the meeting (or so France had said. Romano hadn't bothered to go not really seeing the point), but at the flick of a switch as soon as the meeting was over the Englishman’s mood had turned sour, and no one had any idea why. Looking at the younger nation now there’s no sign of any of his hostility from earlier. He seems quite calm standing there as France brushes his hair. 

The blond seems a little more relaxed right now as France works. The Italian had spent all afternoon trying to figure out what was wrong with the blond, but kept coming back to the realisation that he was probably just reading into things too much again. He’s still not totally sure that Spain doesn't have feelings towards his former rival, but if he does then he’s obviously not interested in acting on it. There’s just something really weird about the way the two former empires act around each other that makes him uncomfortable. When they’re around other nations all they seem to do is fight, but as Romano had seen for himself when the two idiots are alone there are times when they seem to be totally relaxed around each other. It’s almost friendly if you could believe that. It’s just really...weird and annoying.

“Romano, the scissors, s’il vou plaît.” He reaches across the counter to get the requested item, but before he can pass the little silver trimming scissors England grabs his wrist turning to throw a heavy glare at the blue-eyed nation behind him.

“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing, Frog?” The only response the island nation gets is a tut.

“Relax, cher. I’m just giving you a little tidy up. There’s no sense in dressing you up nicely just to leave your hair sticking out all over the place. Now release mon petit, and stand still.” His arm is released, but the Englishman still doesn't look very happy about the idea of having his hair cut.

It takes the Pervert-Bastard roughly an hour of fussing over the younger blond before he’s finished. With his hair trimmed the Englishman looked breathtaking, but now with it combed and slicked back neatly the man standing in front of them just doesn't look like England anymore, even with his giant eyebrows boldly on display. France’s obvious look of dissatisfaction with his work shows clearly on his bearded face despite having spent the last hour carefully arranging the Brit’s hair.

“I suppose some things are just better off left as they are.” Disappointment laces the Frenchman’s words, and the island nation begins to rescruff his hair. 

“This happens everytime you say you’re going to do my hair. I don't know why you don't just give up already.” France gives an indignant huff as his work is swept away by pale fingers, but even though the younger blond sounds unsurprised by the result the Italian can clearly see the pout on the Englishman’s own lips. At least that’s a promising sign. It’s not that the island nation is opposed to trying to change his style like he had had previously thought, but just that his scruffy head of bed hair is too wild to be easily tamed. As he watches the blond’s slender fingers run through his golden strands he can't help but want to reach forward and do the same with his own hands. This might be the only chance he’ll get. Shit. But the fucking Pervert-Bastard is standing right there. Dammit. Che, he’s going for it. 

“Wait, hold still, Bastard.” He reaches forward fingers trembling at the thought of finally being able to touch the other nation. England flinches back, reaching up to smack the Italian’s hands away. It’s a purely defensive gesture, and England looks just as shocked as he is, but he isn't going to give up now. After fantasising about the Englishman for so long the thought of finally being able to touch, and not just wonder about how the other’s hair would feel under his fingers has got the Italian’s pulse racing. 

“S-sorry, just, just hold still a minute.” It’s difficult to keep reminding himself that he’s supposed to be arranging the blond’s hair, and not just lose himself in simply touching it. He’s struggling to stay focused. The scruffy locks are much softer than he thought they would be, and being so close to the nation he’s been obsessing about for months is exhilarating. The blond’s body is so warm. He can feel the other’s heat radiating off him in waves. It takes all the brunet’s effort not to lean forward and bury himself in it. The man’s natural warmth mixed with the subtle scent of his cologne is making the Italian’s judgement hazy. 

“Ah, that’s better. Très beau!” The words break him out of his trance. The perverted smirk on the Frenchman’s face makes him flush, but thankfully England can’t see it with the Italian standing so close. Thanks to fucking France the moment is gone, and England turns his back to the brunet to face the other blond.

“Happy now?”

“Oui! You look stunning! My only regret is that you don’t dress up more often.”

“Yes, and I’m sure you'd prefer to be the one doing the dressing up wouldn’t you, you bloody pervert?” France looks over to him cerulean eyes gleaming with mischief. 

“What do you think, Romano?” That bastard…He’s on the edge of having a fucking breakdown over trying not to pop a fucking boner because of the sexy bastard, and the fucking French-Bastard knows it. Somehow. Fucker.

“Y-Yeah, he looks great. Can we get the fuck out of here, already?” It’s too stuffy. He can’t breathe. France grins to himself, and England makes his way to the door pushing it open so the Italian can pass. He bolts out of the little bathroom hoping to have a couple of seconds to calm his racing heartbeat before the two blonds emerge.

“-I’ve got a flight booked at eleven, so don't worry about it.”

“Come now, cher, it wouldn't kill you to socialise a little. You can share a room with Frère!” He’s not exactly sure what the two are talking about as they make their way out of the bathroom, but the Englishman sounds irritated again.

“I hardly think so, Frog. The last time I let my guard down around you you tried to molest me in my sleep!”

“How many times do I have to say it? That is not what happened. You had a fever, and were overheated, I was simply trying to help you cool down!”

“Yes, and I suppose I simply imagined America trying to cook a bloody burger on my head did I?”

“He wasn't trying to cook it. He thought it might help you, but no, you didn’t imagine it. That actually happened. Sometimes I do worry about that child…” No, seriously. What the hell are they talking about? America? Burger? Are they talking about the bastard’s cat? Did something happen to it?

“Hey, Bastards, if you’re finished can we fucking go now?” It’s not like he’s particularly interested in going to the party. He just really wants to see the looks of shock on all those bastard’s faces (especially Veneziano’s) when the Englishman walks in. He feels an overwhelming feeling of pride as he takes another look at the island nation. It had been because of Romano’s efforts the blond looks as breathtaking as he does now. The only problem is that with the Englishman looking as sexy as he does the Italian is really struggling with the urge not to just drag the younger nation off somewhere and ravish him senseless. Really, really struggling.

They pass Bulgaria and that bastard Romania on their way to the party. He really hadn't thought this through at all. Romania is obviously pleased with England’s new attire not hesitating to touch the blond in a suggestive way - stroking his arm, pulling him close! Fuck that bastard! The bastard’s complintents on his friend’s new found sexiness have got the Englishman blushing, and Romano seething through gritted teeth. Shit. He’s going to kill that bastard. The Italian really hadn't thought this through. All those bastards at the party. There’s no telling what they’ll do! He’d only just come to accept the fact that he wants the Englishman for himself after months of agonising over the younger nation, and now he’s made the bastard so fucking irresistible every fucker on the fucking planet is going to want a piece of the blond. 

At least it’s a formal party. The music is quiet, and it’s a private affair - nations only. If England does suddenly get snatched up by some bastard, and dragged off to a dark secluded corner somewhere someone will notice. The biggest problem is that if he drinks too much there’s a very real chance that the horny bastard trying to drag the Englishman off could be him. He’s already on edge. He’d already decided when he was on the train here that he is going to confess to the blond tonight. It’s fucking terrifying, but he can't just ignore his interest in the younger nation anymore. He’d be driving himself insane day after day just worrying about what he’d do if the Englishman suddenly started dating the fucking German-Potato. As much as he hates the idea of his brother dating the fuck the idea of the Tea-Bastard ending up with him is worse. Way worse. Thank fucking God their date had ended badly. The Italian had been so happy when England told him on the phone. He’s not going to risk something like that happening again. 

What if he gets rejected? Dammit. He’s been freaking out about it ever since that afternoon. He’d wanted to get a coffee with the blond - just the two of them to catch up, and set the mood right for his confession. He’d had it all fucking planned. Take the blond to a small secluded café hidden in the middle of the city where no nosy nation-bastard’s could accidentally ruin the moment. Then once the mood was right they could take a walk around the plaza in the snow, and he would confess. It all seemed so fucking perfect and romantic in his head. Getting coffee together, talking a walk in the snow in a secluded part of town. He hadn't really thought about the possibility the blond might turn him down until it actually happened. It’s not like the blond actually turned him down though. He didn't even get a chance to confess, because the fucker went and rejected his invitation. That had been a fucking slap in the face. A cold, hard shot of reality. It’s not like he’d offer to buy a drink for just anyone, and the fact that he’d gone to the effort of tracking down the only café in the whole fucking city that actually serves tea (because he knows how much the blond doesn't like coffee) should make it fucking obvious just how much the Italian cares, right? Yet, the bastard still fucking turned him down.

In hindsight trying to catch the island nation right after the meeting had been a stupid idea. Of course the blond was going to be tired. As disappointing as it was not being able to spend time alone with the Englishman he still has the entire night to try and tell the blond how he feels. The biggest obstacle is going to be trying to get the man alone in a private place without it looking too fucking suspicious. 

The party is well under way when they eventually make it to the ballroom. The soft orchestra music filling the air is mixed with chatter and laughing as he takes note of just how many nations are actually here. He spots Turkey almost immediately talking with Netherlands, and suddenly all he wants to do is turn around and run right back out the door. France disappears immediately to join America and a girl the Italian doesn't recognise, and then he spots the Albino-Potato harassing Hungary and Austria. Just like that the Englishman slips through the crowd of bodies on the dance floor like a ghost. No ones seems to notice him as he passes, but when the Italian tries to follow him desperate to keep an eyes on the taller nation he gets dragged into one unwanted conversation after another with nation after nation wanting to know how he’s been, and what he’s been up to over the last few decades. Apparently some of those fuckers even thought he’d just up and fucking died! The hell? Chigi!

By the time he escapes he’s lost sight of England completely, until he spots him standing alone by the champaign table seemingly disinterested in the party. He edges closer hopeful this might be his chance, but before he can reach the blond a strong arm grabs him from behind wrapping tightly around his shoulder. He definitely doesn't scream, but he does try to elbow his assailant in the gut only to have his arm stopped before it can make contact with it’s target. He realises then it’s fucking Portugal, not Spain, because if it had been the Tomato-Bastard he wouldn't have reacted fast enough to block the hit. When he looks up he’s met with familiar emerald-green eyes and a mop of scruffy brunet hair. The signature mole on the older Iberian’s cheek identifying his attacker as definitely Portugal, and not Spain. It makes no fucking difference. Both brothers are as fucking annoying as each other, but Portugal is probably the worse of the two, and now thanks to the bastard he’s lost sight of the Englishman again! 

The bastard pulls the Italian by the arm across the dance floor and away from the island nation. The crowd of nations on the dance floor is making it impossible to see the island nation anymore. Dammit. There’s something about the look in the older bastard’s eyes that irritates him. Actually everything about the Portuguese bastard irritates him, but before he can say anything he’s roughly shoved forwards into Spain’s unsuspecting lap as Belgium grins and waves. 

“Roma!” That’s the only warning he gets, but he’s learned after years of living with the idiot what that tone means. He elbows the clingy bastard before the idiot can grab hold of him. Spain cries reaching for his cheek shocked at being elbowed in the face. He just rolls his eyes at the idiotic display. This happens every time they see each other. It’s nothing new. The Italian doesn't like being approached suddenly, especially from behind. He’s always been jumpy, and he has violent reflexes when he’s startled, but Spain does it anyway. Stupid Spain. Seriously he can't believe the bastard hasn't learned by now.

“Long time no see, Roma!” He escapes Spain’s grasp to greet Belgium with a quick kiss on the cheek trying to think of a way to excuse himself before England wanders off somewhere. Portugal doesn't stick around for long. After a short conversation with Netherlands he gives the tall blond a hug and a kiss, and a kiss on the cheek to Belgium too before he disappears off into the crowd ignoring Spain completely. He’s not surprised. The two hardly talk to each other, and when they do it always seems awkward and tense.

“I haven't seen you for so long! How have you been?” Just like that he gets dragged into another long ass conversation about what he’s been up to and how he’s been, but it’s not like he minds spending time with Belgium just not right now. Spain get them all drinks and snacks from time to time. The topic keeps changing, and the Italian quickly gets caught up in it until the Tomato-Bastard eventually whisks Belgium off to dance leaving the Italian alone at the table. Belgium’s blue dress twirls around her as she glides across the glistening marbled floor. He honestly feels sorry for her. It can’t be easy dating someone as clueless as Spain, but the pair look happy together as they dance. He feels sick watching them. He should be looking for England, but he can't help but watch. If Spain isn't happy in his relationship then he should just fucking say so, and not lead Belgium on. She’s a strong willed, but kind hearted woman, and the fucker’s honestly lucky to have her, even if the Tomato-Bastard says the love just isn't there anymore. There aren't many nations out there that would want to deal with Spain on a daily basis if they knew him as well as Romano and Belgium do. He’s amazed Netherlands hasn't killed the moron yet.

Veneziano soon appears from the crowd. Over-enthusiastic as ever, and apparently happy to see his older brother for once. France, Seborga, and Monaco join him, and not long after the whole fucking potato clan turns up too. One by one half the continent seems to be gathering into Romano’s little corner of the bustling ballroom. It’s too fucking crowded, and he’s getting stressed being surrounded by so many nations at once, even if most of them aren't paying him any attention, or even know he’s there. The only bastard who isn't there is England. No fucking surprise. It would be too fucking convenient for the blond to suddenly turn up now.

“England?” That catches his attention. He snaps his head to look over at the Scandinavian nation, but the island nation isn't with him.

“Yes, France mentioned that he is here. Germany has been looking for him, but no one has seen him for a while now from what I understand.” 

With how dressed up he is the brunet would have expected there to be some kind of gossip about the island nation, but so far no one has said anything, actually so far no one has even seen him from the sounds of it. Both Portugal and France had come over a while ago to ask if anyone had seen the blond, but Veneziano hadn't even known England is at the party until France mentioned it. The Englishman seems to be hiding out somewhere trying to stay inconspicuous. Maybe it’s because of whatever upset him earlier? Whatever the reason he’s disappointed. He’d been looking forward to getting to spend time with the younger nation, but now the bastard’s just up and disappeared somewhere.

“Now that you mention it I saw him talkin’ with India over by the dessert cart a couple of hours ago, but I haven't seen him since. He looked pretty stressed out now that I think about it.”

“Ah, excuse me for interrupting gentlemen, but if you are looking for England-san I believe he is currently putting Sealand-kun and Wy-chan to bed. America-san and I ran into them a little while ago.”

“Ah, so Sea managed to sneak in after all, huh? I better go tell Sve, and Finny. Probably should find Australia too, and let him know. Catch you later, Austria, Japan! You too Romano, nice seein’ ya!” 

“Um, y-yeah, sure, whatever, Bastard.” Fuck, that bastard Denmark. He’s so fucking energetic. 

So, the Tea-bastard is with that Sealand kid Seborga hangs out with? The hotel is huge, and as much as he wants to find the blond he doesn't feel like getting lost looking for the island nation. He’s getting tired, and his head hurts from all the noise, and probably a little from the stupid amount of alcohol he’s downed too.

“10.”

“9.” Everyone suddenly begins counting down. The music has stopped, and the room falls silent between each count. It’s almost midnight. Nearly Christmas. It’s a bit weird having a countdown to Christmas, it’s not New Year’s, but looking at the desolation at the champagne table it’s actually amazing anyone is still sober enough to even count in the first place.

“8”

“7”

All he can hear is Veneziano as he jumps around up on the stage leading the count. His head is starting to feels fuzzy, and instead of England the only thing he really wants to find right now is somewhere to sit down. Making his way over to the dining area at back of the room had seemed easier in his head than it actually was. Getting there meant pushing past a load of excited and boozed up nations. More than once the Italian got shoved into the wall. He’s sure he’ll have bruises tomorrow, but right now he just wants to sit down down before he passes out. 

The temperature over here at the dining area is surprisingly cooler than the rest of the room. As he drags out a chair from a vacant table he notes that one of the patio doors is slightly ajar. The crisp night air is really soothing his muffled head so he isn't complaining, but between the counts he swears he can hear quiet muffled voices coming from outside. It sounds like Spain and France. Prosecco forgotten the Italian leaves the table edging closer to the large windows as carefully as he can, so he doesn't fall over and make an ass of himself. It is the two bastards. Even from here he can already tell that Spain is smashed from the way he’s slumped over the patio wall nestled into France’s arm. It feels likes he’s seeing something he shouldn’t, and even though he knows he shouldn't he can't stop himself from watching.

France softly runs his fingers through Spain’s tossed air, and the drunken nation just laughs and leans in closer resting his head against his friend’s shoulder. They look more like lovers than friends from this angle, and whatever they’re talking about seems to be pretty fucking intimate from their closeness and hushed voices. Still, it’s Spain. The bastard tends to get pretty clingy and sentimental when he’s wasted. 

Cheers and shouts of ‘Merry Christmas’ in various languages fill the air as the countdown reaches its peak, and the chiming of bells off in the distance signals the stroke of midnight, and the beginning of Christmas Day. It’s a weird change for him not to be a Mass, but his thoughts are more preoccupied with the two nations in front of him to be too concerned about it right now. Spain’s done a lot of things he regrets in his life, but he’s never cheater on a lover. The Italian just can't believe the man would do something like that, especially not to Belgium. The brunet might be shit at communicating, but he’s always been honest with Belgium about their issues in the past. He doesn't want to believe what he’s seeing as the two continue kissing completely oblivious to the startled half-nation behind them.

The crunching of snow under his feet as he makes his way outside to confront the two bastards is drowned out by the celebrations going on indoors. Making his way forward he reaches out to grab Spain’s shoulder hesitant fingers hovering just out of reach. What is he supposed to say? He hadn't really thought this through. Tense and conflicted he pulls back. Someone grabs him from behind for the second time that evening, and something soft and fluffy is stuffed into the Italian’s mouth. The last thing he sees as he’s suddenly pulled back inside the hotel is France's fucking smirk. The bastard brings his index finger to his lips as Spain snuggles into the French bastard’s neck signaling for the Italian to keep what he’s just witnessed a secret. Yeah right, fuck that.

Hands pinned behind his back, and voice muffled by the makeshift gag he’s got no choice but to go wherever is assailant his leading him. He can’t even see the bastard like this. From the corner of his eye he can just about make out a silhouette. Judging from the height and body shape his attacker is tall and male. Yeah, that fucking narrows it down. He’s pushed through the crowd close to the wall, out of the ballroom, and then up some stairs before being shoved into a pitch black room. The door clicks shut, and he’s so fucking freaked out he feels like crying. What the fuck is going on?

“You didn't have to gag him! Romano, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” A violent shake of the head is the only answer he can give the woman with his mouth still gagged. He’s deposited unceremoniously on top of one of the twin hotel beds as that fucker Portugal makes his way towards Belgium's shadowy figure. He’s seen too much of that bastard Portugal tonight. “I only wanted to talk. Not kidnap him, geez.” That makes twice in one night that fucking bastard has ‘kidnapped’ him now. He’s starting to really dislike that fucker. Sending the bastard a glare is the only thing he can do to show how pissed off he is, but the other brunet simply shrugs as he makes his way towards the window. 

Belgium walks toward him looking apologetic as she carefully removes the scarf from the Italian’s mouth. If it had been anyone else he would have fucking bitten them. As soon as the material is gone he begins his verbal assault, but the scarf is quickly shoved back in silencing him once again. He’s so fucking angry and confused right now he’s not even sure what to think. 

“Geez. What a mess. Alright, listen. I’m going to take this out now. I know this must all seem really crazy, but I saw you out on the patio with Spain, and Frère, and I just really need to explain things to you before you jump to any weird conclusions!" Explain what? The hell? "Roma, I’m really sorry, but please hear me out, okay?” He isn't really interested in listening to what the woman has to say. He’s more focused on trying to chew his way through the scarf in his mouth. Eventually Belgium takes it out probably waiting for another wave of swears, but the Italian stays quiet silently glaring at Portugal over by the window. He’s not sure what this is all about, but right now he’s far more interested in finding somewhere quiet to lay down than to listen to whatever Belgium’s got to say. Shit. If she went as far as getting Portugal to fucking ‘kidnap’ him it must be fucking important. 

“So, well I guess I’ll just get straight to it. You know me and Spain have been on and off for a while?” He nods. Wait, hold on…’have been?’. Oh, shit...So they're 'off' again. Fucking figures. “Ah, well. A couple of days ago I was visiting Frère’s place to do some shopping, and out of nowhere he suddenly told me he was going to confess to Spain tonight! I was so shocked I didn't know what to say!” Well, yeah, no shit. Apparently a lot of fucking nations were thinking about doing the same thing today. “After listening for a bit I kinda realised that Frère really loves him. Really loves him, Roma, way more than I think I ever did. So I decided to break things off to give them a chance, since it’s not been working between us for ages.“ Oh, so Belgium’s been feeling the same way as the Tomato-Bastard, huh. “Ah, well, I kinda haven't...Gotten around to it yet, but Frère went ahead and confessed anyway, and it seems like they’re really happy together! And I think Frère might have told Spain I’m going to end things anyway, so it’s no big deal really!” Oh, well, if Belgium’s fine with it then that’s fine, right? She certainly seems okay. There’s no sign of any kind of sadness at all. Actually she seems completely fucking ecstatic.

“Here’s the problem.” Fuck, he should of known there’d be more. His fucking head is pounding, and he doesn't want to deal with this right now. “Well, a few months back there was a meeting, and well Brother kinda caught me and Spain together, and you know how he is with Spain. I couldn't tell him the truth. Brother would have gone crazy. Romano, I’m really sorry, but in the moment we panicked and kind of told a little white lie...” She trails off. It takes a few minutes for his brain to catch on to what the blonde is saying, but when it does everything finally makes sense. All evening nations had been asking him about how things are with Spain, and if he’s happy, and congratulating him. He didn't fucking get it at the time, but he does now. Shit. 

“You told him I’m dating the fucking Tomato-Bastard?” Belgium physically flinches and apologises again.

“Well, actually, Spain told everyone at the meeting that the two of you are dating. You haven't been going to the meetings, and no one had heard much from you for a long time, so, we didn't think you’d ever have to find out, but now it’s gotten really complicated.” She’s obviously stressed out about it, and it’s fucking understandable. Netherlands would have fucking killed Spain if he knew the moron was dating his sister, but now the bastard is seeing France. Except Belgium hasn't actually broken things off yet, so technically he’s still with her…? That fucking cheater! Of course there’s also the fact that the whole world thinks he’s the one dating the idiot, so if anyone should be pissed off it’s him. 

There’s a moment of silence as he tries to digest it all. The mattress is firm, but the duvet is fluffy as he falls back on to it covering his eyes with his hands. With his stomach doing cartwheels from the booze, and his head splitting the Italian wishes he could just vanish through the floor. He just can't wrap his head around it all. 

“Chigi.” Seriously why does he always get dragged into other nation’s crap every single time? What is he supposed to say? Fuck, he’s done with all this dramatic shit. He’s got his own shit to worry about. He still hasn't managed to track down the Tea-Bastard yet. Rubbing his eyes he looks across to the Portuguese nation by the window. He can't read the bastard’s expression at all, so he turns to look at Belgium. Her gentle green eyes silently pleading with him. He’s not even sure what it is she wants from him, dammit! None of this is even his fault, so why does he have to get dragged into it?!

“I’m sorry to ask this Roma, but could you please pretend that you and Spain were together, and then broke up? You can even say you’re the one who ended it if you want. I’m sure Spain won’t mind.” To be honest he should have pretty much expected that. Shit. He doesn't want Spain to get murdered, and the bastard is happy with France now, right? By the looks of things Belgium’s happy to be single again too.

Portugal’s been fucking quiet the entire time. Fucking weird considering they’re talking about keeping a secret about his little brother away from his own lover. Maybe that’s why? Maybe he’s got conflicting loyalties or whatever. Like when the Italian was trying to decide between who he’d rather dump the Potato-Bastard on. His own brother, or the Tea-Bastard. Oh shit, if Spain told ‘everyone’ does that mean...Fuck! Does England fucking think he’s dating the Tomato-Bastard? Fuck...Fucking, dammit! He can't believe this. If he’s going to have any chance of asking the island nation out he needs to make sure the blond definitely knows he’s fucking single, and not interested in anyone else. Dammit, his head’s spinning even worse now thanks to all this crap.

It’s dark, and silent in the room as he weighs his options. Belgium gives him some space making her way over to the window to talk to Portugal whose scathing eyes are firmly planted on something going on outside. It takes a second for him to realise, but they’re probably watching Spain and the Pervert-Bastard swapping spit out on the patio. Those bastards. If things had worked out differently earlier it could be him and England down there instead, getting cozy and making out in the snow. Tch. Yeah, right. It’s probably a good thing he didn't get the chance to confess if the blond thinks he’s dating the Tomato-Bastard. That would have been fucking awkward.

So, where does he go from here? He doesn't want Belgium to have to go through anymore drama, even if he’s still pissed about being dragged into it in the first place. He’s got no choice but to go along with her stupid lie. Otherwise Spain’ll get his ass kicked, but Belgium hasn't officially broken things off yet, and Spain’s with France now anyway. Even if Belgium said that she doesn't care that’s still fucking low. Maybe he could just tell England the truth? Then at least there wouldn't be any misunderstandings between them. He doesn't want to start any possible relationship with the island nation with a lie. No, fuck, he can’t. He’s not sure he can trust the island nation to keep a secret about Spain a secret. The two bastard’s relationship is too weird. He’s not sure about now, but he knows the Englishman was allies with Portugal in the past, and if Portugal is willing to keep it secret from his own lover maybe he could talk to England about it too? Shit. No, he can’t risk that either! 

“You okay, Roma?” Shit, no he’s not okay. He’s so fucking frustrated, and too tipsy to really think straight. He should have just stayed home with the cats. Damn Tea-Bastard making him come to this stupid party. Damn Veneziano for hosting it in the first place.

“Yeah, fine.” Rolling over he buries his head in the soft fabric sheets trying to get his thoughts together. Uh, dammit. 

“Roma?” 

“Si?”

“Geez, Romano! Wake up!” 

“...M’wake…”

“...Are you?”

“Si.” Quiet envelopes the room, and once again he’s struggling to stay with it. There are little sounds here and there. Taps and small shuffling sounds, but his mind is so fogged with sleep he doesn't really take any notice of them. 

“ROMANO!” The fuck?! Flying off the bed the startled Italian falls on his ass on to the hard wooden floor. Looking up he sees a pair of mischievous green eyes gleaming down at him from the bed. Fucking Belgium. The blonde starts giggling. By the sounds of it she’s had a bit too much to drink too. She did seem a little too happy earlier, but fuck. She didn't have to fucking scream in his ear. He nearly had a fucking heart attack.

“Pfft, sorry, Roma. Please will you do it?” ‘Do it.’ Do what? Oh, right, the thing with Spain. Uh, damn. He really doesn't want to lie to the Tea-Bastard, but if it means Belgium will get off his case and let him sleep then he might as well. 

“Si, si...I’ll do it, so you better fucking thank me later, dammit.” The next thing he knows he’s being hugged, and the blonde kisses his cheek singing his praises and thanking him every couple of seconds. He’s not sure why, oh, yeah, Spain, and France, and dating, something about a secret, fuck he can't think straight. Dammit he needs to sleep so badly the floor actually seems kind of inviting right now. Belgium mutters something to Portugal (fuck, he forgot that bastard is here) as the Italian scrambles back to his feet before face-planting the fluffy duvet again. Gentle fingers pat his head, and the last thing he notices before drifting off into sleep is being surrounded by something warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Sorry if Belgium seems out of character. To be honest I'm not sure how to write her. I've not seen enough of her in canon to really figure out her personality yet. I'm working on it.
> 
> Please comment and/or kudos. :) Romano and England will be back in the future. <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first thing’s first! Oh my gosh! All the comments I’ve been getting have been so wonderful. I truly love it when I read that people are enjoying this story. Your comments give me life during this horrible wet winter weather, so thank you so much!
> 
> Second: My iPad has finally died, and I can't afford to buy a new one. So all new chapters are being written on my tiny little phone. I apologise if there are mistakes. It's really hard to see on such a small screen!
> 
> I don’t have any kind of social media for those who were wondering. I never have anything interesting to blog about. :/ Give me some suggestions? I'll look into it. AO3 really needs a PM system. 
> 
> The usual warnings apply; Romano’s potty mouth, adult and religious themes, possible trigger warnings, etc. 
> 
> Anyways, on to the chapter!

The faint glow of gentle moonlight softly lights up the room as it slips past the gap in the curtains. He can’t see much apart from the silhouettes of furniture scattered around the room. Frazzled the Italian rubs his eyes as he sits up to take a look around for a something to drink. Some water would probably be a good idea about now after all the alcohol he’d downed earlier - or yesterday, whatever. Belgium and that bastard Portugal are nowhere to be seen, but that's not surprising since this isn't the room the Iberian had dragged him into before. It’s a lot nicer. There’s a fancy wooden desk placed opposite the bed he’s sitting in, and above him is a canopy of woven fabric. Who the hell puts a canopy above a hotel bed? More importantly what the hell happened after he fell asleep? 

It's only when he feels something shift beside him he realises it's a double, no, king size bed, and there’s someone else fucking in it. From this angle he can’t see who it is because the puffy duvet and layers of blankets balled up around the figure are in the way. He might of been smashed last night, but he knows for a fact that he wouldn't just go and fall into bed with some unknown stranger...Not another nation anyway. He knows the bastards too well to let his guard down like that. How the hell did he even get here? He’s pretty sure when he passed out he was in a twin room. Maybe the Portuguese-bastard brought him here? Fuck, that's not even his biggest concern right now, dammit.

Leaning closer the soft sound of breathing catches his attention as he holds his own breath. The cold night air hits him hard as the blanket over his chest falls to his lap. He’s still mostly clothed. His shoes, jacket, tie and belt are all mysteriously missing, but he doesn't feel anything out of place physically on his body. Checking to make sure everything is fastened he’s relieved to find his shirt and trouser buttons are still in tact, so it's unlikely he’d been assaulted by some lecherous basted while he’d been sleeping. He reaches forward resting his hand lightly on top of the bump next to him. He’s anxious, and starting to freak out. Fuck. It's probably just Veneziano, but the lump seems too large to be his brother. The bastard has an annoying habit of spreading out when he sleeps, but his frame isn’t that much different than Romano’s own. The little shit might be taller than him, but he’s not buff enough to be the mystery bastard under the covers. Shit. What the fuck? The fact that the lump is curled up and not spread-eagled all over the place is also a pretty obvious clue it can’t be his stupid fucking brother, dammit. So, who the fuck is it?

Grabbing the material he hesitates before pulling the blankets back slowly. He doesn't want to risk waking the sleeping nation beside him just in case it turns out to be some weird-ass fucker like the Albino-Potato or something. The bundle beside him shifts. Fuck. Don't wake up. Don't wake up! Biting his lip he repeats the words over and over in his head. The movement stops, and a mop of scruffy blond hair suddenly emerges from above the layers of fabric as the bastard beside him settles back into sleep. 

Fuck.

Definitely not Veneziano. God fucking save him. He’s freaking out. The bastard shifts again, and then he spots it. That give away scar on the bastard’s forehead. How the fuck did he end up in bed with Netherlands?!! His heart is about to explode. This is too much for him to process right now. Shifting back the Italian covers his mouth with his hands to stop himself from making any noise as he tries to figure this out. 

Looking up he spots some bottles of water over on the desk. Dammit, he’s really thirsty, but if he moves he might risk waking the blond, and then what? If the bastard wakes up wanting some kind of explanation what the hell is he supposed to say? He doesn't even know how he got here himself. Wait, he should be the one wanting a fucking explanation here, dammit. He'd been asleep in a different room, and somehow ended up in bed with a bastard that’s terrified him since he was a child. Fuck. Waking up next to the Tea-Bastard would have been a fucking dream compared to this, but as much as he would love to believe the island nation would somehow just happen to fall asleep next to the Italian he’s pretty sure that will never happen.

Dammit, back to fucking reality. This is Netherlands not England. The bastard could, and probably will kill him in this situation, even if it’s not his fucking fault they somehow ended up in bed together. However he got here it still doesn't change the fact he's fucking screwed. The northern nation seems like he's probably a pretty light sleeper. Maybe he should just lay back down and pretend to sleep? No. There's no way he can fall asleep now. If he waits it out then maybe the blond will wake up and then leave on his own, but that could take hours, and he’s fucking thirsty now. 

He shifts back an inch watching for any kind of movement from the sleeping figure. Netherlands stays perfectly still chest rising and falling as he takes in shallow breaths. Safe. The blond is definitely asleep, so he scoots back a little further accidentally snagging his feet in the covers and pulling the duvet, but the blond still doesn't budge. He must be really out. Slowly he slides out from the covers mattress bouncing up as his weight leaves the bed. The rug under his feet is cool but soft, and as quietly as he can the Italian makes his way towards the desk trying to keep his footsteps as light as possible. Well, at least he's found the rest of his clothes. His jacket is folded neatly, tie and belt on top, and his shoes are tucked away neatly next to the chair. There's a second jacket on the opposite side, and a second pair of shoes.

Fuck this is crazy. He wishes it was England, and at the same time he’s fucking glad it isn’t. He’s not sure how he’d react to waking up and seeing the bastard he’s been fantasizing about for months sleeping next to him completely defenceless. Biting down on his lip he reaches blindly into the dark for a bottle chilled fingers grasping at nothing but air. He can't takes his eyes off the sleeping form in front of him. He’s got no idea what to fucking do. The bastard seems to be completely asleep, so he should probably just grab his shit and leave.

The chair knocks against the desk as he reaches his jacket, and he freezes panicked at the loud sound in the silence of the room. Netherlands doesn’t move. Taking his belt and tie he slips on his shoes, and carefully reaches for the water basket again. Grabbing a bottle he makes his way to the door and opens it only to find another fucking room. Dammit. What the hell? The first thing that hits him as he walks in is the overpowering stench of booze. Shit. It smells like a fucking brewery. It doesn’t look like a bedroom. There’s a few couches scattered around, and a couple of large armchairs, but no bed. It must be a fucking suite. One of those fancy ass ones that’s like an apartment.

There should be a way out somewhere. It’s a hotel. All the rooms have lead to the hall eventually, so he just has to find it. Dammit. It’s like Spain’s stupid fucking house all over again. Too many stupid fucking rooms that lead to other rooms. t’s still dark, and the chilly night air is giving him goosebumps. Even when he finds his way to the hall then what? In a fancy hotel like this there’s probably still someone at the check in desk. He could go ask for another room, but given he was supposed to be sharing with Seborga, and somehow ended up in a huge-ass suite with Netherlands all the bastards are probably all over the place at this point. There’s no way of knowing who the hell is where. That’s probably how he ended up here. Some bastard probably moved him because he’d passed out in their room, and at some point Netherlands turned up looking for somewhere to crash. Unless this is actually the bastard’s room, and the Italian has somehow just ended up in it. The blond probably didn’t even realise the brunet was there, or maybe he did, but was too fucking smashed to care. Whatever the hell had happened he can’t stay here. He doesn’t want to have to try and explain the situation to the northern nation when the bastard does eventually wake up. 

The door on the far-side of the room looks like it’s probably the way out. Scanning the rest of the area he spots a lump on the rug in the middle of the floor, and then another - Poland passed out resting against an armchair. Hungary looks fucking hot in her sexy Santa dress. When did she change? He’s pretty sure he would of noticed if she’d been wearing that at the party. A lot of bastards would have noticed. The miniskirt and plunging neckline of the dress don't exactly leave much to the imagination, especially not from this angle…Looking around there’s quite a few nations all passed out in different places. He doesn’t want to wake anyone, but he’s getting tired, it’s cold, and he’s getting a headache. Maybe he should just find an empty spot, and go back to sleep. He’s almost regretting getting up at all. At least he was in a nice warm bed earlier, even if he was sharing it with a scary bastard like Netherlands. A fluffy bed still beats sleeping in a chair, or like whoever that bastard is over there on the rug - in the middle of the floor. 

There’s not much room. Most of the ‘soft’ surfaces are occupied by passed out nations. He can’t see a completely empty couch or chair. There’s one empty spot on a little two-seater by the wall, but there’s a bastard curled up at the other end. The figure is wrapped up in a blanket in a snug little ball. All he can see from here is a pale hand hanging over the edge peeking out from the folds of fabric. He’s got two choices. Either try to find an empty room which seems fucking unlikely given how many bastards turned up to the party last night, or take his chances and crash on the sofa next to the mysterious sleeping nation. 

Fuck.

Sofa it is, dammit. It’s like it’s calling him. There’s just enough room for him to squeeze on to the end without having to touch the sleeping form on the opposite side, and with all the other bastards (and Hungary) in the room it’s not like the asshole will try anything. He’s honestly too tired to really give a shit. The sofa is there, he’s tired, there’s an empty spot. He may as well use it. 

There’s no mistaking those eyebrows as he makes his way over. He’d been looking for the blond all night, and now the Italian finally finds him passed out with a stupid smile on his face. Asshole. Dammit, his chest feels tight all of a sudden. The bastard looks so fucking comfortable tucked up in his little corner of the couch. It's not like this is the first time he's seen the Englishman asleep. The island nation had been pretty unguarded often dozing off on the living room sofa while the Italian had been staying with him. He hadn't been aware of his feelings for the younger nation back then, so he hadn't really thought much about it, but now...Now. Now, what? He doesn't know what to fucking do with himself. Dammit. He’s stuck there standing over the bastard like a fucking creep too afraid to sit down just in case he accidentally wakes the adorable fucker. 

Placing his shit on the floor he holds onto the water bottle as he sits down slowly trying his best not to disturb the sleeping nation. It’s better than looming over the bastard like a fucking weirdo. The blond would probably be more comfortable with his head on the armrest instead of resting on the gap between the two cushions, but he’s not complaining. The Italian can see the other nation's relaxed expression as he sleeps like this.

Seriously, why does it have to be England of all nations? This is driving him insane. He’s spent so many months telling himself these feelings he has for the younger nation make no fucking sense, but it doesn't matter what he tries to tell himself. His heart still skips a beat whenever he hears the blond’s name, his cheeks flush just thinking about the man’s smile, and he can't ignore the heat that runs through him whenever he remembers that hot summer night they spent playing cards together in the bastard’s living room. The more he thinks about the other nation the more he wants to know. He wants to unravel the infuriatingly mysterious bastard that is England, but more than that he just wants to know why out of all the nations and people in the world did he suddenly start liking this bastard?

He fucking hates the island nation for doing this to him. It's not fair. The bastard is so close, but so far out of reach. Literally and metaphorically. The blond has always been on the edge of the Italian’s existence. He’s known the younger nation ever since they were children. He often heard rumours from his brother and France about the unruly new nation always running around picking fights, but he was never interested in them back then. His own house was a fucking mess at the time, and the last thing he needed was for some troublesome brat to come along and make things worse. That was so long ago. He fucking regrets not getting to know more about the other nation back then, dammit. How the hell was he supposed to know he'd end up feeling like this for the blond one day? He’d been such a fucking brat he probably wouldn't of listened if someone had told him. He would of probably scoffed and told them to go fuck themselves.

England’s got pretty long eyelashes for a man. They’re dark just like his eyebrows, and from this closeness the Italian can see the almost non-existent freckles scattered across the blond's pale skin. He could scoot over, move a little closer, feel the other’s body heat as it radiates off him while he sleeps. They’re so close. Just a little. That’s all. Inch by inch he slides his hand forward. The roughness of the other’s lips captivates him. Trembling fingertips ghost over the broken cracks of dry skin tenderly trying to soothe them. Fuck, he shouldn’t be doing this. He’s not sure who he’s praying to; God, or the Englishman himself, but he’s desperately begging to whoever will listen that the man beside him doesn’t wake up just yet. He wants to stay in this moment for as long as possible. His senses are flooded with excitement, adrenaline, and fear. It’s addictive, and he doesn’t want to have to let go of this feeling just yet.

He tries to recall when he first met the Englishman as he softly caresses the blond’s cheek with his thumb. The island nation had been visiting Vatican City with one of his rulers, or an official or something. He knew the bastard was trouble from the moment he first saw the other’s bloodied face covered in deep red cuts and angry dark bruises. That’s how the southern Italian had viewed the younger nation for almost a thousand years; trouble. They’ve spoken to each other maybe only a handful of times during their entire lives never really having any reason to ever meet. The Italian never saw the point in going out of his way to interact with the younger nation outside of politics up until that brief period when they became ‘allies’ only decades ago. 

Those times are still so vivid in his memory. The sounds of shouting and gunfire off in the distance, and the smell of blood and smoke. One particular night stands out above the rest though. The very first thing he remembers is the Englishman’s beautiful peridot eyes as they sat there in the dreary darkness. They started telling stories to try and cheer themselves up while the Englishman cleaned and bandaged the brunet’s battered body. As night drew in and the gunfire quieted England became reclusive. Neither of them said anything as he watched the other nation stare off into empty space. If it had been a scene out of one of America's cheesy movies that would have been the part where the Englishman would have said something heartfelt and stupidly cliche. Something like the war couldn’t last forever, or the Italian would soon be free to see his brother again, something like that, but he remembers nothing like that happened. The two nations just sat there in tense silence while the blond prepared fresh bandages and water (having run out of antiseptic weeks ago). He remembers the feel of the blood running down his body as the younger nation carefully cut away the infected blisters from his back. No words were spoken, but he clearly recalls the feel of the man’s trembling fingers as he touched the Italian’s skin.

The thing he admired most about the younger nation back during those times was his ability to always appear composed and unfazed by anything. Each day the blond would go about his work steadfast and unflappable presenting himself with the same overflowing confidence and strength he always displayed in front of his soldiers. The Italian pondered over it quite a lot as he went about his days helping to prepare meals or doing laundry. Once silence fell and darkness cloaked the horizon it was an entirely different story. England would become quiet and jittery flitting about in a flustered panic making sure all preparations were in order for any possible attacks that may come. When night finally arrived the blond would stand watch vigilantly keeping on eye on anything that moved in the dark. Romano had very quickly gotten used to the routine of making sure England’s meal was prepared and delivered to him before nightfall. Each evening as dusk settled in after a day of tactical talks and strategy meetings the Englishman would take a few minutes to sit down for a much needed cup of tea. He very rarely bothered to appear during meal times, and it was impossible to sit the blond down long enough to eat during the day. It was a small window, but if the Italian missed the Englishman wouldn’t bother to eat at all. It amazed him how the blond could put on such a brave and strong persona during those kinds of circumstances with so little food in his system. 

There’s a little smile at the corner of the Englishman’s lips. Maybe he’s dreaming? Even in the dark the blond seems like he’s glowing. He’s so pale. Smooth porcelain like skin, fair-hair, and eyes that glisten like gemstones; the blond could be an angel if it wasn’t for his stormy temper and macabre sense of humour. He looks innocent enough when he’s fast asleep like this. He’s often thought of painting the man as one, but he always gets so embarrassed by the beautiful images he’s created in his mind he can never seem to convince himself to bring them to life on canvas. 

During the war the Italian had at some point found out the younger man is afraid of the dark. He’s not sure what’s triggered him to suddenly remember that now, but he definitely remembers making the mistake of laughing at the bastard for it at the time. The island nation shut him out completely for a while refusing to even look at the brunet let alone receive his meals from him. He couldn’t help it. The idea that a strong former empire like England can’t sleep alone because he’s afraid of the dark at his age was hilarious. He felt like he’d somehow gained some kind of power over the blond after finding that out, and he teased the bastard mercilessly for it. Shit, he can't believe he'd forgotten about that. The bastard had given him such a fucking hard time about it - doubling his chores, cutting his rations, and complaining about every little thing the Italian did just to spite him. Not like he didn’t deserve it, but England continued to act like a dick until he was satisfied he’d made the Italian’s existence as miserable as possible. 

Che. If he’d felt the same way about the younger nation back then as he does now then he could have fucking used that information as an excuse to get closer to the Englishman. It would of been a fucking good excuse to comfort the blond and improve their relationship. What did he go and do instead? Fucking torment the bastard and piss him off. Che.

The blond is still sleeping soundly. Remembering all this stuff is making him feel stupid and sentimental. They might of been allies technically, but England made it damn obvious that due to his relationship with Veneziano the Brit wouldn’t be trusting the southern Italian to go anywhere unsupervised. Despite the fucking awful circumstances they did have some good times too. The most notable was one afternoon in late spring. Some of the men had been sitting around eating lunch talking while the Italian had been hanging things out to dry. They’d been talking about home and the girls they missed, and how much it sucked that they were all stuck in a camp of foul-smelling men. England had been quietly going through maps and papers not showing any kind of interest in the conversation at the time. The poor bastard had been miserable for days after a failed attempt to make an advance, and the men all knew it. One of the younger soldiers suddenly called the nation out, and it quickly escalated into a huge joke at the blond’s expense.

The brat decided to mock the nation for his apparent lack of interest in women. Another bastard added that it was just because the upper class bastard was just too proper and boring to discuss his interests with others. The jokes continued for a while until one soldier; a cheeky young brat suddenly jumped in claiming it was because the blond must be more interested in men than girls. How else could the nation be so at ease with no women around? At the time he remembers the camp going silent. No one knew how to react to the joke. Probably scared they’d be punished if they said anything out of turn, but England only looked up from his papers eyes gleaming with mischief with that same cocky smirk that makes the Italian go weak at the knees. He can't remember exactly what the blond had said, but it was something like telling the young soldier to be careful what he says or the island nation might be tempted to show the kid a good time. The soldiers absolutely lost it at the look on the poor bastard’s face. He was so flustered (not used to his commanding officer’s warped sense of humour) that he didn't know what to say, and went back to quietly eating his food while the rest of the men carried on making jokes and having fun. 

At the time he silently wondered if maybe the kid was actually right. England never showed much interest in women, and the Italian had to wonder why. The idea the island nation could be gay plagued the Italian’s thoughts for days. He didn't really know how to feel around the other man as he rushed around doing whatever the blond ordered him to. He wanted to ask, but didn’t know how to bring it up without sounding like an ass. Especially during a time when it wasn’t socially acceptable to be interested in the same sex. The island nation never showed any interest in any of the men or boys at the camp either though, so eventually the Italian forgot all about it.

Until now, dammit. Now he’s wondering about it all over again. He messes with the bottle cap screwing and unscrewing it repeatedly as he thinks. Romano is a man. That’s good, right? He’d have a chance at least. What if he’s wrong, and the blond isn’t interested in men at all? Shit he didn’t think about that, but didn’t the blond go on a date with the Potato-Bastard recently? So, it’s not like he’s can be completely straight either, right? Shit. He still can’t believe England went out with the fucking German-Potato. According to the island nation the evening had been a disaster, but what if the Englishman’s still interested in the fucker anyway? That would be a nightmare. Not just for him, but for Veneziano too…

Dammit, he should be sleeping right now not worrying about the Tea-bastard’s sexuality. He’s not even sure where his own preferences lie these days. Until recently he always assumed he only likes women. Apart from England the only other male nation he’s ever been attracted to was Spain, but that was different. The Italian was only interested in the man’s wealth and the strong influential empire he had built not the brunet himself. His desire for the Englishman isn't as a nation, but as a man. He’s honestly attracted to the blond. His mind is always consumed by thoughts of the captivating fucker sleeping peacefully beside him. Even if he doesn’t understand why. Objectively the bastard isn’t really what people would consider attractive, his fashion sense is terrible, he’s kind of pathetic, and has no friends, he can’t cook, and as far as the Italian knows they have no common interests. There’s also the fact that the bastard can see ghosts, and believes in fairies and magical creatures. There are so many reason for the brunet not to like the island nation, but for whatever fucked up reason he hasn’t figured out yet he finds the adorable bastard irresistible.

He’s tried to avoid thinking about it as much as possible, but he can’t ignore the reality forever. They’re both men, so if things possibly do hopefully end up getting intimate between them one day then one of them would have to be the one to take it up the ass, right? Assuming he eventually gets to confess and England doesn't turn him down how far would he be willing to go with the bastard? It would fucking suck if he suddenly panicked and started freaking out in the moment. The Englishman would probably never want to talk to him again, and there's no way he wants to risk that.

Dammit! Why does he always end up thinking about these things at stupid times in the morning? It's Christmas, and there's daylight breaking across the sky. Reaching into his pocket he grabs his phone to check the time. 7:58am. He should probably shower and head down to breakfast soon. No doubt Veneziano has put out quite a spread. Che. All he can smell is the stench of stale booze coming from all the drunken bastards in the room. As he reaches down to grab his jacket he spots a pair of unfocused peridot orbs staring up at him from down on the sofa cushions. Shit.

“Goo’-” The blond yawns. “-orning.” There’s a brief pause before the blond continues. “Merry Christmas. I’m going to assume the Frog locked you in here too?” ‘The Frog’...Oh, right, France. He’s heard the Englishman call the bastard that a few times before. Well that explains how England got here, but he can't remember anything after falling asleep in the twin room Portugal had dragged him into, so he's still got not idea how he got here himself. Shrugging at the blond's question he tries to think of something to talk about. Nothing comes to mind, dammit. This is fucking awkward. The pale nation looks pretty rough. His hair is messed up more than usual, and his usually sharp peridot eyes are foggy from having just woken up. He should at least wish the younger nation a happy Christmas.

“Buon Natale, bastard.” He tries to keep his voice down so not to wake up any of the other nations in the room. England seems to contemplate something for a while before yawning again and scratching his head. He doesn’t seem that interested in the fact that the Italian is so close. If it had been him who had just woken up to see a bastard watching him while he was sleeping he would’ve freaked the fuck out. There's a sudden knock at the door that makes them both jump, and a swear as Hungary clumsily stands from the armchair she’d been sleeping in. The woman makes a point of carefully trying not to step on Poland as she makes her way over to the door. It’s fucking France. The bastard strides into the room getting nothing but a chorus of groins and ‘go always’ from all the hungover nations. He'd planned on asking the Englishman to join him for breakfast, but now everyone’s awake he’s missed his fucking chance.

“Joyeux Noël! How are we feeling?” Another chorus of groans fills the room including a muffled one from the Englishman whose head is now firmly buried into the sofa. Christmas carols and bustling movement are starting to be heard throughout the hotel as more and more nations wake and make their way downstairs to eat. Hungary makes her way out the door stumbling as she goes. 

“No hangovers?” Something comes flying across the room barely missing the Frenchman’s head. Someone mumbles something, but he can’t make out who it is or where it came from until Portugal’s disgruntled face suddenly appears from behind one of the sofas. He realizes he feels surprisingly okay. Che, that’s a first, but he’s had some water, and probably got a lot more sleep than these poor bastards. He should go say goodbye to his idiot brothers before going home. It’s like watching someone try to summon the dead as France continues to wake the hungover nations from their slumber. He gets nothing but angry protests for his efforts, and England has now somehow managed to completely disappear inside the blanket he was wrapped up in. 

A sickening feeling settles in his stomach as France glides across the room to lean against the side of the couch where the Italian is sitting. He wants to die. Fuck. God just kill him now. “What have you got there, mon petit?” The cerulean-eyed nation gestures to the lump beside him. England doesn’t shift, and one after another hungover nations begin to filter out from the room some looking worse than others. He didn’t realise how many bastards were actually in here. Any one of them could of seen him earlier, dammit. The Italian’s heart sinks. The only ones left are him, France, England, and Portugal; who has also made his fucking way over to inspect the covered lump nestled beside the Italian.

“The fuck do you want, cazzo?”

“Relax, mon petit. I only came so wake everyone for breakfast. No need to be so hostile.” Fuck that. He’s known the bastard for too long not to feel hostile around him. 

Portugal pokes England through the blanket a couple of times in different places. The blond continues to play dead, until he suddenly jolts letting out a garbled mix between a gasp and a squeak. France grins, and Portugal continues to assault that same spot. Eventually a head pops out from the material, and he has to hold back a laugh because the bastard looks like a sea turtle or some kind of fuzzy caterpillar with just his head sticking out like that. The blond sits up straight brows furrowed as he throws Portugal a frown. 

“You’re an arse.” He couldn’t agree more. Fucking Portugal. That bastard just goes and tickles the island nation like that as if it’s no fucking big deal, but he can’t even have a fucking conversation with the blond without having an anxiety attack first. How the fuck did he even know it was England under there?

“Don’t glare at me like that. If you don’t eat you know you’re going to be miserable for the rest of the day, so wake up, and then come join me downstairs for breakfast.” He’s fucking pissed off all of a sudden. Fuck Portugal being all friendly with the island nation asking him out for breakfast. He was going to ask the blond first, dammit!

“I suppose we should wake Netherlands too.” The air suddenly goes tense, and all the joyfulness seems to disappear from Portugal’s eyes as he quickly cuts in before the bearded-bastard can finish. 

“-I’m getting hungry, so I’ll leave him to you, França! See you at breakfast, meu amor!” The brunet leans down and kisses the Englishman’s cheek, and then his jaw, and then again right on the corner of the blond’s fucking mouth! England looks as shocked as the Italian feels as he sits there frozen to his spot on the sofa like he can’t believe what the hell just fucking happened. He cant fucking believe it either, and apparently neither can France. The three dumbfounded nations watch on in silence as Portugal makes his way out of the room whistling a happy Christmas tune as he goes.

England’s face turns the same colour as the hideous crimson sweater the french-bastard is wearing. “Wh-what the bloody hell?”

“I have no idea, Cher.” 

“I-I don’t know what goes on in his bloody head these days. I-“ England stops himself covering his mouth with his hand, but the Italian can tell there’s a million different thoughts running through the blond’s mind right now. Just what kind of relationship does he have with that Portuguese bastard for the brunet to try and kiss him like that? He always thought the two were just allies, or had the same kind of boss subordinate type relationship the Italian had with Spain. There’s no fucking way he’d ever let the Tomato-bastard kiss him like that. No way in hell. 

“I thought you and Portugal weren’t speaking to each other at the moment.”

“I haven’t spoken to him for almost half a bloody year!” France senses the Englishman’s rising temper, and tries to change the conversation before the younger blond can get too worked up. It’s not working, and the wine-bastard knows it.

“Ah, before I forget. Here you go! A special present for you both from your loving big brother, France!” Something soft is thrown at the Englishman, and then at him. Lifting it up he’s faced with possibly the most horrifying sweater he’s ever seen in his entire life. It’s so fucking hideous he can't stop staring at it.

“What the fuck is this, you bastard?” It’s such a tacky shade of blue, and the stupid reindeer face staring at him with it’s plastic red nose is fucking creepy. The Pervert-Bastard leans forward squeezing a section of fabric near the hem at the bottom. Suddenly the most dreadfully out of tune version of ‘Merry Christmas’ he’s ever heard starts screeching from it. He’s not wearing it. Absolutely no fucking way. Throwing the Frenchman a glare he tosses the grotesque sweater back crossing his arms in protest.

“It’s your Christmas sweater! It’s tradition! Every holiday we do something interesting and take a group picture together! This year it was decided everyone would wear ugly Christmas sweaters.” Okay, he gets it’s a stupid holiday tradition, but why the fuck does it have to play music? There must be a fucking limit on how disgusting a single piece of clothing is allowed to be. He’s not wearing it.

“Big brother went to a lot of effort to find these, you know.” Fuck. Swiping the thing back he stares at it again while trying to ignore the heat rushing to his cheeks. If it’s a fucking tradition he might as well respect it and take part. Even if the sweater is fucking repulsive. England seems amused by the idea as he holds up his own sweater to examine it. At least the Italian's doesn’t light up like the Englishman's. Poor bastard. He’s more surprised at France’s sweater though. It doesn't really stand out. The red material is bright enough, but the floppy piece of green fabric that he thinks is supposed to be a Christmas tree looks just too pathetic. It’s barley stitched on, and the irritating jingle of the little bells every time the nation moves is probably going to drive him crazy by the end of the day. It’s not as gaudy as the stupid dopey looking reindeer he has to wear, but it’s still fucking ugly, and kind of pathetic for a flashy bastard like France.

Heading to the bathroom to shower he leaves the two blonds alone in the room. He’s not taking any chances, and makes sure to double check the door is firmly shut and locked. The shirt and trousers he has on now will have to do. He hadn't planned on staying for more than a few hours yesterday, so he didn't pack a change of clothes. They're already creased, and smell faintly of booze. It's not worth taking the effort to fold them, so they end up in a heap on the floor as he strips and turns on the water. He can't get everything that just happened out of his head. He really does like England. He doesn't know why, but he does. He hadn’t considered the possibility that other bastards like Portugal might be interested in him too. He still has his suspicions about Spain, but he’s dating the French-fucker now. The Italian just wants to get closer to the man that's captivated his attention for so many months, and asking him out just seems like the most obvious next step, but he has so many reservations. By the time he’s finally re-dressed, and leaves the bathroom he’s fucking exhausted again. 

England has got France by the collar of his sweater looking pissed as hell. What the fuck did he just walk into? The two blonds look over to the Italian, and the island nation immediately releases his grip and steps away from the the older nation. “...We’ll talk later. I’m going to take a shower.” He’s not sure what the hell happened, but the younger nation doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the Italian as he passes him to get to the bathroom. Flinching as the door slams shut he looks over to the only other bastard in the room for some kind of explanation. 

“Don’t mind Angleterre. He’ll calm down eventually. For now let’s join everyone for breakfast, and have some fun!” Dammit. It’s not like he’s got much of a choice. They make their way toward the elevator in silence. His head is still swimming with all the crazy events that had taken place the last two days. First getting turned down by the Englishman for coffee, then all of Spain's drama, and now today first waking up in bed with Netherlands, and then Portugal suddenly almost kissing the Tea-bastard out of nowhere. He's pretty sure he's going to be a fucking wreck when he actually gets some time to really process it all. 

Fuck, it's only when they reach the breakfast room he realises how many nations are still here. He's already spotted most of Europe, and some other bastards like America, Australia, and Japan. There must be maybe a hundred nations or more all just hanging around milling about the place. Did Veneziano invite the entire fucking world to this party? Holy shit. There's so many bastards here he's not sure if he can do this. France notices the Italian’s apprehension, because he grasps him gently by the shoulders and slowly ushers the brunet into the room. 

There's fridges, carts and tables all stacked with different assortments of food from all over the place. From soft sweet pastries and meats and cheeses to fresh fruit, and eggs and bacon. There’s decorations all over the place too from glittery tinsel and holly wreaths on every wall to the miniature Christmas trees sitting on the tables. The quiet hum of holiday carols coming from the speakers fill the room with festive cheer, and the crackle of the wood burning fireplace really adds to the cozy atmosphere. Veneziano really did go fucking all out. How the hell did he manage to swing this? There's no way their fucking government paid for it.

“France! Dude! Over here!” There's no mistaking that voice, especially when the bastard is waving at them like a fucking lunatic. Shit he wants to run the other away, but he can't with the Pervert-beard holding on to him like that. He's led towards the table America is at, and takes an empty seat. Opposite him is Japan, to the left America, and then some guy who looks like America...what’s his name, right, Canada; America’s brother, and then next to him sits France. The two brothers and Japan look over at the older blond expectantly. The Frenchman just sighs and shakes his head. The mood at the table suddenly seems to dive, but it doesn’t last long. The Burger-bastard breaks the silence loudly shouting about something the Italian doesn’t understand before being scolded by both his brother and Japan. He's not sure what the hell is going on, but he feels fucking out of place with these bastards. 

“So, operation TsunTsun is a no-go?” Tu-su-on-what?

“Oui, unfortunately. However I need to say this, I’m sorry Japan, but Big Brother is still not sold on that name.” 

“My apologies, but America-san had already decided on it.” 

“Dudes! It's an awesome name.” The brother - Canada just sighs, and takes a bite out of some toast. He's right there with him, dammit. He's got no idea what the hell is going on.

“Anyways, what do we do now? Since Sir Grumpy-brows doesn’t feel like joining us are we just gonna wait or what?” France chokes on his pastry. ‘Sir Grumpy-brows’, no mystery who they’re talking about. He’s going to have to remember that one.

“I suppose for now we simply observe. If Angleterre becomes even slightly suspicious there will be no hope of moving forward at all.” 

“I agree with France-san. For now we should carefully observe the situation, and plan our next move accordingly.” He takes a piece of toast from the rack and a packet of butter from the dish. The only thing he knows for sure is that these bastard are talking about England. Obviously, they’d been waiting for France to drag him down. This whole thing whatever it is had been fucking planned.

“Duuuude. That’s lame.”

“America…” The brother’s voice is so soft and quiet he can’t believe the two bastards are even related. Ha. A lot of bastards probably think that about him and Veneziano too. Taking a bite out of his toast he looks over at the other bastards in the room. He spots Russia over by the juice counter closely followed by Belarus. Over by the patio doors is a bunch of nations he doesn’t know the names of. A couple of them he recognises, but he just can’t put a name to their faces. On the next table is Bulgaria and that bastard Romania talking with Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Hungary who to the Italian's disappointment has changed out of her Santa dress into a simple T-shirt and skirt. Somewhere in the distance he can hear Spain and Turkey, but he can’t see the bastards in the sea of nations flooding the room.

“Dude it’s Iggs we’re talking about. It’s fine.” 

The four bastards talk amongst themselves while he finishes his toast and grabs another slice. He doesn’t want to just fucking sit here, but he’s got no idea how to join in the conversation or even what they’re talking about. Happy end? Flags? He doesn’t understand, but Japan and America seem pretty worked up about it. 

“No fair. I want happy end, Japan. Happy end!” That’s all the bastard has been saying for the last few minutes. 

“Are you alright, Mr. Romano?” Mr. Romano? When was the last time anyone called him with any kind of title? The brother...Canada gives a small laugh as France gets dragged into whatever Japan and America are talking about. It’s fucking weird seeing so many nations all sitting around talking to each other peacefully like this. 

Canada like his brother was England’s colony for a long time. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to get to know him little. Maybe the quiet blond could tell the Italian some things about the island nation from back during his empire days? There’s no point asking France or the Burger-bastard, but this Canada kid seems pretty level-headed and approachable. He could be a useful source of information. 

A commotion by the patio catches the attention of everyone in the room. He can’t see what’s going on, but all of a sudden a huge surge of freezing air comes sailing through, and a bunch of nations begin trailing toward the patio doors. Dammit. Just what he needs more fucking drama. 

“Ah, mon coeur! What’s happening?” Spain bounces his way over looking like he’s about to fucking explode with excitement. He’s too old to be acting like that. What a fucking moron.

“Denmark just challenged Russia to a snowball war! Everyone’s going to play! You’re coming right?” The look on France’s face as he takes a glance toward the condensation covered windows says it all.

“I’m afraid I’ll be sitting this one out.” 

“Aww, really? Well okay I guess. If you don’t want to. You’re comin’ right, Roma?” 

“Fuck no.” The bastard can plead with those puppy dog eyes all he wants there’s no way he’s going out in the cold just to get soaking wet and freeze to death. 

“C’mon! It’ll be fun I promise, por favor?” Honestly the bastard can beg all he wants it’s not happening. Not a chance in hell.

“I said no, dammit. It’s cold.”

“Dude count me in! What about you, Bro?”

“It sounds like fun. I guess I’ll join in for a while. If that’s alright?" 

“Si! Of course!”

“Yes! Awesome!” Seriously? The morning sun has pretty much turned whatever was left of the snow last night into cold muddy slush. Who the hell would willingly want to go out and play in that?

“Shut the fecking door, yer bloody eejit!” Was...was that one of England’s brothers? Must be. He doesn’t know any other bastards that use the word ‘bloody’ the way the Englishman does, and it definitely wasn’t England. Not with that accent. The shout bellows through the entire room, and France laughs into his coffee. 

“Francia, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Inglaterra’s gonna kill ya.”

“Oui, but it will be worth it.” 

“Mmn. You better hope so. Oh, looks like everyone’s meeting up outside. France, Roma if you guys change your minds come join in whenever!”

“Have fun, mon amor. If you happen to cross paths with Angleterre give him my love.” He’s not sure what the hell that's supposed to mean, but judging from the smirks on Spain’s face the island nation is in for it.

“Will do! See you later!” The Tomato-Bastard leans down to give his lover a kiss, and he can’t hold back the gagging noise that escapes from his throat. It’s not just him though America gags too. 

“Dudes get a room.” Spain just laughs as he gives the pervert-bastard another peck on the lips before making his way back into the hotel. The bastard’s got such a hop in his step he’s practically skipping. He’s happy the moron’s happy, but if he has to see the two bastards swap spit again he might just fucking throw up. 

“Japan, you comin’?” Nations continue to filter out the room, and as it empties he can see some bastards already out on the patio wrapped up against the cold weather. There’s already factions forming. He spots Russia and his sisters over by the doors talking with Netherlands. Behind the tall blond he spots Belgium and Luxembourg chatting happily. Over by the patio wall is Denmark and the other nordics. Leaning against the wall he spots his own fucking brother. Veneziano no fucking surprise is clinging to the fucking German-potato all fucking smiles. Maybe he should join in just so he can pelt the idiot in the face with an ice ball.

The scraping of wood brings his attention back into the room. America and his brother seem pretty fucking excited as they say their goodbyes heading presumably to get their coats before going outside. He’s planned on going home after eating and saying goodbye to Veneziano and Seborga, but he may as well stick around to see how this plays out. He watches France as his cerulean eyes follow Spain out of the room, but it’s not the kind of look you’d expect from a man gazing at the love of his life. The bastard almost looks sad as he watches the sunny nation walk away. He’s not sure what that's about, but he’s not going to ask the bastard about it. Not that he had the chance to anyway. The look is gone, and the bastard calls over to Scotland - so that’s who it was. There’s no mistaking that bastard’s red hair. 

Taking this chance the Italian quickly slips away from the table grabbing a final slice of cold toast as he goes. What should he do now? Veneziano’s outside with the Potato-bastard, so it’s not like he can say goodbye to the little shit without possibly getting bludgeoned by a bunch of snowballs as soon as he walks out the door. He could ask Seborga to pass on his goodbyes for him, but he’d feel like kind of a dick for doing that. It is Christmas, and as annoying as he is Veneziano is still his brother. The least he can do is stick around long enough to say goodbye in person, dammit. He’s a little curious in watching the carnage outside too, but only if he can find a warm, quiet place to laugh at the bastards from in peace. 

As he passes the double doors leading to the ballroom he can hear a bunch of nations chattering to each other from inside. Peeking his head in he spots them all clustered around the windows like a pack of sardines. Squished up by the window surrounded by a bunch of bastards he doesn’t particularly know or like is the last fucking place he wants to be. Stepping away from the door he’s literally rammed into the wall by America as the blond flies down the hall.

“Dammit, bastard! Watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry, dude! My bad. You okay?” Other than feeling like he’s just been hit by a steamroller going down a hill there’s also a good fucking chance he’s just dislocated his shoulder from being slammed into the solid plaster, but other than that yeah.

“Fine, bastard. Just slow down.”

“Sorry! I’m super pumped. I’m gonna kick Russia’s butt so hard!” The blond seems confident, but he doesn’t fancy the Burger-bastard’s chances against Russia of all nations in the snow. “Romano you should totally come join us, dude!” Dammit. There’s just something about the bastard’s child-like gaze he struggles to say ‘no’ to, even though he really doesn’t want to go out in that.

“Bastard I wasn’t really planning on-“ The blond won’t fucking stop. His innocent sky blue eyes are staring into the Italian’s fucking soul. Fucking dammit, he’s doing it on purpose. Spain should take lessons from this bastard. Actually no, fuck. Then he’d never be able to say ‘no’ to him either. “...I don’t have a coat, bastard.” He really doesn’t. He did when he’d first arrived, but he’s got no idea what happened to it after the party last night. He can’t even remember when he took it off, or if he gave it to someone to hold on to, or if he left it somewhere. Shit. 

America looks obviously put out, so he does his best to try and assure the bastard it’s not a problem. He didn’t want to go out in the first place, so at least now he has an actual reason not to. Eventually they part ways. America runs off at full speed towards the patio completely ignoring what the Italian has said about slowing down only minutes ago. Fucking fatass. He could kill someone like that. He can’t believe these bastards are all so excited by the idea of playing in the slush. He’s rather be curled up by a nice warm fire with a stomach full of food than go out in the cold. Maybe he should stick around for lunch, no, dammit, then he’d be stuck here until fuck knows when. Christmas at Veneziano’s is just like at his place lunch usually ends up extending into dinner, and by the time everyone’s done eating they’re so full they can’t move.

When was the last time he spent Christmas together with his brothers? It must of been decades ago. It had snowed a few days before, but melted and refrozen during the night. He remembers because when they were on their way back to Veneziano’s after Midnight Mass he’d slipped on some fucking ice and his ass was soaked and freezing for the rest of the walk. The two little shits had laughed the entire time. When they eventually made it to the house he immediately stripped off his trousers in the entryway just to get the soggy cold material off his skin, but even his fucking boxers were wet, and Veneziano started laughing at him again. Asshole.

During Christmas Day they spent the entire morning cooking together. Veneziano sang some old Christmas carols he could remember, and Romano kept an eye on Seborga to make sure the little shit didn’t keep stealing pieces of things before they were ready. During dinner they all sat down to read the letters they’d written to Nonno, except he didn’t want to read his fucking letter. No shit. It was stupid. He cried enough times just fucking writing it, so there was no way he was going to read it out loud in front of his idiot brothers. He burned it over a candle while Veneziano yelled at him to stop. That was such a long time ago. Now things are so tense between him and Veneziano it’s hard to imagine they’ll ever be able to do things like that again, che. Christmas is supposed to be about spending time with family. He used to spend it with Spain all those years ago, but now-a-days the moron spends it with Portugal. At least the Tomato-bastard’s making an effort to patch things up with his brother. That’s more than the Italian can say about himself, dammit. 

Fuck, now where is he? Dammit, he got too fucking caught up dragging up old memories he’s got himself fucking lost. It’s a hall with a bunch of closed off rooms probably for meetings or conferences or something. He needs to find his way back to the lobby. Fuck. Turning around he makes his way back hopefully headed the way he came. There’s a bunch of different halls, but he didn’t go up or down any stairs, so at least he knows he’s on the right fucking floor. 

It takes almost an hour of wandering around seemingly endless hallways, and one quick toilet break, but he eventually makes it back to the breakfast room. The foot he’d broken a few months back is killing him from all the walking around, but at least he’s not fucking lost anymore. The busy hotel staff are preparing the food for lunch filling the entire building with delicious smells. It all smells so good it’s making him hungry. The room is empty except for himself, so he’s got plenty of seats to choose from. Picking one over by the heater he’s got a pretty good view of the patio outside. He can’t believe those bastards are still at it running around in the wet. The flurry of snowflakes rains down around the idiots making it look like a real winter wonderland out there. What are the fucking chances it would actually start snowing on Christmas Day? He can’t believe it. All the bastards look like they’re having fun with their cheeks and noses flushed red from the cold. 

Spain jumps around like an idiot until he’s bombarded by a rain of snowballs by Belgium and America. He’s not sure who’s on what side anymore. It looks more like a free for all last man standing kind of deal at the moment. It must have really come down while he was getting himself lost around the hotel. It’s difficult to believe, but there’s apparently been enough snowfall for some of the bastards to build a fucking fortress out of it. That’s insane. It’s not unusual for his brother’s place to get snow, but they’re in Rome not Venice. It hardly ever snows here. It’s not fucking normal to have this amount so quickly even at his brother’s place, well maybe in the upper northern regions, but definitely not in Rome. To the bastard’s outside it must seem like some kind of Christmas miracle, but if it keeps coming down like this no one’s going to be going anywhere for awhile. Fuck.

Over by the patio doors leading to the ballroom he spots France. So, the bastard did eventually get dragged out, huh?. He’s only there to deliver hot drinks to the idiots playing in the snow by the looks of it though. A couple of kids rush right over reaching up to grab a mug each from the tray. The boy is definitely one of England’s territories. He’s practically the blond’s miniature. He’s not so sure about the girl. The brunette doesn’t seem familiar. They’re probably the ones Seborga always talks about. What were their names? Something-land? Veneziano that moron doesn’t hesitate to run over. Skidding on the snow he almost sends the young brunette flying face-first into the slush as he crashes into her from behind. That idiot. Sometimes he’s amazed himself that the two of them are related.

Monaco appears from behind her brother with a second tray of hot drinks, and a few more nations break from the fray to take a quick break and warm themselves. There’s some kind of scuffle going on over by the ice wall separating the two sides of the ‘war zone’. A bunch of snow gets kicked up into the air into a plume, and from it that burly bastard Sweden suddenly appears holding Denmark over his shoulders like a prized stag. The captured bastard kicks and flails, but he can’t break free. There must of been some kind of mutiny, because the poor Dane is quickly surrounded by the rest of the Nordics all holding snowballs ready to fire on the poor bastard. Suddenly the northern bastards are fired on themselves by Prussia, and in the confusion Denmark breaks free and wrestles Sweden to the ground pinning him into the snow. England darts over the wall like a fucking Olympian leaving the albino-potato back in their ‘base’ fortress alone. He knows it’s England from the oversized puffy winter coat he’s wearing. It’s the same one the blond had worn in the picture he’d sent the Italian all those months ago back in the autumn. The island nation easily skirts past Norway (who’s too busy watching Denmark and Sweden) only to be blocked by Romania and Poland.

With England surrounded someone else darts over the wall easily passing all the bastards in the mid-field. The northern bastards, Romania, and Poland all look totally confused, and in that moment of confusion England dashes between the two Eastern Europeans to a skidding stop next to America who high-fives him with a cheer. Whatever the hell they’re playing it seems really intense. 

An hour passes. The game continues whatever it is, and an assortment of delicious smelling dishes are being ferried out on large serving carts toward the ballroom. With the amount of bastards here to feed it’s a hell of a lot of food. Dammit he’s so hungry. He thinks he’s figured out the game though from watching the idiots play it for so long. There’s two ‘bases’ one on either side of the big snow wall in the middle. The object of the game is to try and get over the wall and to the other ‘base’ without being caught by the ‘guards’ in the middle. If you get caught you take the place of the bastard who caught you, and then the former guard has to pick a side and try to get to the opposite base without getting caught themselves. To be counted as caught the guard has to actually restrain the nation they’re trying to catch. If they grab them but the bastard gets away easily it doesn’t count. There’s apparently no end to this weird-ass game. Just a continuous cycle of bastards tiring themselves out trying to jump over a wall of ice and not getting caught in the process. 

There’s quite a lot of tactics to a seemingly simple game like this though. There’s ‘guards’ stationed on either side of the wall to try and catch the bastards running in either direction, but with so many people playing it’s difficulty to keep track of who’s who. One way he’s noticed some of the bastards try to sneak past the guards is to immediately run out after someone else has run out from the same base using the first bastard as a cover. The most popular tactic seems to be distracting the guards by hurling snowballs at them so nations trying to get to your base can make it safely over the wall, and then hope they return the favor. A couple of bastards have even formed alliances sacrificing themselves to allow other nations from their base to get past the wall, and then as guards not catching them when they try to run back the other way. There seems to be at least three distinct teams he’s noticed so far; number one: the Nordics (minus Denmark) and a lot of Eastern Europe including Russia and his sisters; the second: the Potato-bastard’s team which seems to have most of Western Europe including Veneziano, Spain, Belgium and Netherlands, as well as some of the East Asian nations like Japan and South Korea, and then the final team is America’s which has most of England’s former colonies and commonwealth including Scotland and Ireland, and Prussia and Denmark for whatever reason. There seems to be a fragile alliance between America and the Potato-bastard’s teams at the moment probably because the German-Potato isn’t currently playing. Everyone else just seems to come and go joining in and leaving the game whenever they feel like it. 

When the two kids aren’t playing it gets ten times more violent which is to be expected. The only exception was during the brief time when Liechtenstein decided she wanted to play. It really slowed down then because none of the guard bastards would go near her. He wouldn’t either with fucking Switzerland standing there on the sidelines like that. Some of the more over-competitive bastards keep taking things too far, punching each other in the gut and wrestling each other to the frozen ground. The thing that surprises him is that most of the foul play is coming mainly from the female nations! Fucking Hungary and Belarus don’t seem to have a problem with playing rough at all. At one point they even teamed up with Belgium to literally tackle America! That had been fucking hilarious to watch. A lot of the bastards made catcalls and wolf-whistles at the young blond as he was dragged down into the snow by the three women. The poor bastard seemed really embarrassed which only made Belgium laugh and tease him more. Dammit they really look like they’re all really enjoying themselves. Maybe he should of gone out after all. 

Veneziano is called inside by someone from the hotel. The idiot waves and shouts trying to get everyone’s attention, but no one apart from the few bastards already gathered around the patios doors seems to hear him. He takes it that means lunch is finally ready. It’s about time. He’s fucking hungry, dammit. Leaving the breakfast room he notices more and more nations piling into the hall. Word has obviously spread, and all the hungry bastards are quickly making their way into the ballroom to see what’s available. It’s set up buffet style again just like breakfast. It’s not the traditional way to serve a Christmas dinner, but it makes sense. With so many bastards with different eating practises trying to sit everyone down to a set meal would be impossible. 

There’s so many different dishes the southern nation is sure he must have died and gone to heaven. There’s everything from your traditional roast meats with various vegan options, to brightly coloured curries, and even fried chicken. There must be at least twelve different types of gravy, sauces and broths, and countless different styles of vegetable, pasta and fish dishes. He doesn't even know where to start. There’s so much food it’s taking up the entire ballroom, and the adjoining room next door has been set out as a dining room just so everyone can sit and eat. It’s amazing just how much time, money and planning must have gone into arranging all this. He can hardly believe his brother was the one to pull it all together. Actually he doesn’t believe it. The entire event has been so well organised with such precise detail there’s no way it was Veneziano who finalised it all. His money is on the Potato-bastard.

One by one more and more nations begin to fill both rooms. Cramped is a fucking understatement. It’s starting to get stupidly claustrophobic in here. Condensation begins fogging the windows from the steam wafting off the food and the mass of bodies packed so tightly into one space. Trying to free himself from the tide of nations the flustered Italian backs up against the wall by the doorway waiting for his chance to slip through. Hungry or not there’s no way he’s getting stampeded just trying to get something to eat. Most of the bastards are taller than him, and getting elbowed in the chest every time someone moves is getting fucking annoying.

There’s a gap, so he takes it. The temperature difference here compared to the ballroom is insane. Taking a much needed gasp of cool air the brunet waits by the wall weighing his options. He’s hungry, and wants to get at least something before all the other bastards demolish it all, but heading in there now would be suicide. Even if he could squeeze his way in and load up a plate there’d still be the task of trying to get back out again without losing any of his haul. Fucking dammit.

“Roma! Romano! Are you over here?” That’s fucking Spain. He can’t see the bastard, but he can fucking hear him.

“Out here, bastard! In the hall” It takes a few minutes before the sunny nation can navigate a path through the crowd of bodies. 

“Man, it’s crazy in there. I’m glad I found ya!” He’s far more interested in the plates in the bastard’s hands to really pay attention to what he’s saying, and of course Spain notices it right away.

“I couldn’t find ya inside, so I figured you’d be hiding out somewhere. Here.” A plate of deliciously steaming food is gently gestured his way. He doesn’t hesitate to grab it. Thank fucking God for Spain. With a vigilant eye he follows his former boss back into the swarm both hand firmly clutched around the hot ceramic slowly burning his fingertips. The dining area isn’t as packed as the ballroom (yet), and he spots a few familiar faces sat down enjoying their food on the comfort of some couches over by a fireplace. Laughter fills the air as everyone eats and socialises. America, Canada, Japan, fucking Portugal, the Albino-Potato, and the bearded-bastard all seem to be enjoying themselves. The only one who isn’t seems to be England. The poor bastard just seems really uncomfortable with the Portuguese-bastard almost sitting in his lap. Greeting the group he takes a vacant spot on the larger sofa next to France (che, dammit) resting the plate on his lap. Spain takes the last empty seat next to his lover nestling up close receiving a couple of mock-disgusted groans from America and Prussia. Everyone begins eating and talking amongst themselves again while the Italian happily stuffs his mouth. 

Feeling more at ease with Spain there it’s a little easier to join in the conversations as the nations tell of their great ‘battles’ out in the snow. The atmosphere is cozy and warm. There’s even some idiots singing Christmas carols over the other side of the room. The festive cheer is fucking contagious, even Romano is feeling snug on his little spot on the sofa as he starts on his second plate of food. It’s a nice selection. Damn that bastard Spain for knowing him so well. It’s embarrassing, dammit.

“So what are you guys doing for New Years?” America suddenly asks. 

“Me and West are just gonna spend it at home.”

“Dude that’s lame! If it’s New Year's you gotta do it right and ring in the new year with a shit tonne’a fireworks!” 

“Honestly, Amérique you and your love of explosives. As for Big brother I will of course be spending the wonderful new year with mon amor, oui?”

“Mnhnm...Si!” Ugh they’re so fucking lovey-dovey it’s disgusting to have to watch. Although Spain actually seems far more interested in stuffing his face than paying attention to his lover at the moment. The bastard doesn’t even bother to look up at France who is obviously trying to set a nice romantic mood between them. All the bastards are sending the Pervert-beard looks of pity. The Tomato-bastard can be so oblivious when he’s got food in his hands. 

“What about you, Cher? Any exciting plans to start the New Year?” He looks over to the island nation. The blond seems despondent at the question before sighing and taking a drink from his mug. 

“Unfortunately.” There’s a pause as everyone waits to hear the blond’s plans, but the island nation doesn’t seem to want to elaborate. “...It was Scotland’s idea. We’re going camping in the highlands.” Camping in the middle of winter? Fuck that. He feels sorry for the bastard. The blond doesn’t look like he’s looking forward to it all.

“So not fair dude, I have to work.”

“You poor little thing.” America sticks his tongue out at his former caretaker. “Still, I suppose as long as no one ends up in the hospital this year it won’t be a complete disaster.” Portugal leans in close to the island nation, and pets his head. It’s honestly taking all his fucking willpower not to lean over the little coffee table and choke the infuriating fucker out. He touches the blond so naturally it’s driving the Italian insane.

“...Who’s going to be driving?” 

The Englishman cringes at the question. “Wales.” France makes a face like he’s just suddenly been punched in the gut as the younger blond pushes the Portuguese bastard’s hand away.

“My condolences.” There’s obviously something the two blond bastards know that he’s not aware of because the island nation smiles bitterly before taking another sip from his mug. Dammit. He feels so out of the loop.

He hesitates words getting stuck in his throat, but he doesn't want to be completely left out, dammit. “As long as you don’t try and climb any fences, bastard, you should be fine.” Prussia laughs so hard he almost chokes, and England throws the Italian a surprised glance his furrowed brows quickly turning his expression of shock into an unamused frown.

“A fat load of good you were.” What did he expect? For the Italian to suddenly sprout wings and carry the bastard over the fucking fence? It was freezing, and the blond managed to do it in the end didn’t he? So what’s he bitching for? There’s no venom in the Englishman’s words though. Actually he’s pretty sure he just saw the bastard crack a smile. 

Five sets of confused eyes look his way as the Englishman continues to gaze in the Italian’s direction. With the younger nation looking at him so intently like that his cheeks start to feel warm. Not like he can fucking help it, because the blond’s focus is on him, dammit, and that’s all he’s fucking wanted for months now. The frown from the Englishman is nothing compared to the scathing glare Portugal is throwing his way though. Fuck. The bastard looks like he wants to murder him, but he’s not going to be intimidated, dammit! That dick can just fucking disappear for all he cares. He’s been all over the blond most of the day, and from what he’s seen England doesn’t want to have anything to do with the Iberian nation. It’s not like he doesn’t have his own reasons for disliking the bastard either. The Italian’s still pissed at him for ‘kidnapping’ him twice at the party last night, chigi.

France changes the subject breaking the silence, and America starts rambling on about something the Italian has no interest in. He’s too focused on his glaring match with the Portuguese-bastard. He’s probably just made himself enemies with the fucker, but how is he supposed to react with the asshole clinging all over the island nation like that? Portugal’s definitely interested in the blond. It’s fucking obvious by how possessive he is over the younger nation, but England doesn’t seem to share the bastard’s interest. The main problem now is that the fucker knows Romano is interested in the Englishman too. Every time the bastard makes a move on the blond England ignores his attempts, but that doesn’t stop Portugal from trying to state his claim over the younger nation in full view of everyone present. It’s directed at him. He fucking knows it is because the Iberian makes a deliberate point of making sure the Italian is watching before trying anything. It’s stupid little things like brushing his hand over the blond’s pale fingers, or gently snuggling up closer to the smaller man. Little inconspicuous things, but he makes sure the Italian sees it every damn time. There’s nothing he can fucking do about it though, apart from glare and silently plot the bastard’s demise. 

It’s only when England leaves some hours later to join his brothers that the tension subsides. With the blond no longer there Portugal seems to lose interest in aggravating the Italian choosing to torment his own brother instead. Every now and then the Italian looks over to check if the Englishman is going to return any time soon, but the blond’s attention is firmly focused on the little phone screen in his hands as the two British nations cluster around it. Ireland is there too, but he doesn’t seem all that interested in whatever his brothers are watching so intently. When he looks back he catches dark emerald eyes flit from his direction back to the Tomato-bastard. Portugal is a mysterious fucker himself. The brunet has been dating Netherlands for as long as the Italian can remember. It doesn’t make sense for him to suddenly be all over the English nation like that. Unless the two bastards had a fight, but that still doesn’t explain why he’s suddenly so interested in the island nation. They were allies for a while, but maybe they are actually more than that? It doesn't seem like it though with how the blond kept refusing any of the Iberian-bastard’s advances.

Chigi! He doesn’t want to keep going over these things again and again, but unless he ever actually works up the nerve to talk to the younger nation about it he’s got no choice but to keep worrying. Even if the bastard isn’t interested in Portugal it’s fucking obvious there’s a huge difference between their relationships with the island nation. He needs to do something and fast. Every time he turns around there’s another fucker trying to win over the Englishman. If he doesn’t do something to improve the situation soon one of those bastards is eventually going to steal a march on him! Fuck. He’s agonised over the bastard for too long to just lose out to some other bastard without even getting the chance to confess. For a supposedly lonely bastard with no friends the Englishman seems surprisingly popular. Getting the blond alone is starting to feel impossible. A change in tactics is definitely fucking needed. He can’t keep going on like this or he’s going to lose it, and do something fucking stupid.

In traditional Italian fashion Christmas lunch carried all the way into Christmas dinner. Nations ate, talked, sang, and played a variety of different card and board games they’d brought along with them long into the evening. Over the last few hours there has been a slow but constant trickle of nations leaving the hotel many of them worried about the still falling snow, and if their flights were going to be grounded due to the weather. Most of Europe is still around somewhere as well as the North American brothers, Greece and Turkey. He hasn’t seen England or his brothers for a while, but he’s pretty sure they’re probably somewhere. Thank God Portugal has finally fucked off somewhere too. That bastard was really getting on his nerves.

Two glasses of France’s fancy ass Dom Perignon and one too many Proseccos later and Romano was starting to feel more than just a little merry. After watching all the couples snuggle up getting cozy as the last of the dim afternoon light faded into darkness the Italian decided it was about time he got some affection too. Feeling brave in his inebriated state he was finally ready to corner his Englishman. He’s not sure when the little bunches of leaves had first appeared above the doorways, but he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. His last two attempts at getting the elusive blond under the mistletoe hadn’t worked out too well though. The bastard just doesn’t seem to stand still long enough for the Italian to catch him.

If he’s going to capture a slippery nation like England he’s going to need a solid plan of attack first. In the back of his mind there’s a small cynical voice desperately warning him that he’s going to regret whatever he decides to do when he’s sober again. It’s probably right, but he’s going to regret it more if he does nothing and the gorgeous blond slips away from him again. Spain and that stupid-bastard France look so fucking happy cuddled up on the rug with the Tomato-bastard in the Frenchman’s lap. He wants that too, dammit! The island nation could be over here with him, but instead he’s over there playing cards with that stupid American. He’s such an asshole, but he wants the bastard anyway. The Englishman should be grateful Romano likes him at all, che! What’s so interesting about that fucking fattass and his stupid cards? He could always go over there and join them, but the sofa he’s sprawled out on is soft and warm right by the fireplace, and he’s sure the island nation would be much more comfortable over here on the Italian’s lap than sat on the hard wooden floor, dammit! Why won’t he look this way? 

Something seems different. He’s still on the sofa by the fire, but the room seems like it’s changed somehow. He’s pretty sure the sofa was closer to the fireplace before, and he vaguely remembers there being a coffee table and some armchairs. There’s a group of bastards sitting around in a broken sort of semi-circle around the fireplace down by his feet. Ice-blue stares back at him as he looks across the floor to the bastard sitting opposite him on another sofa. Fucking German-Potato, and the albino-potato too. Damn, double potato.

“Ah! Fratello? You’re awake?” Damn stupid noisy brother. Nodding he sits up still a little groggy. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he doesn’t remember when the furniture magically decided to rearranged itself either.

“...What are you doing, stupid brother?” 

“We’re playing drinking games, but everyone didn’t want to get to drunk so instead of alcohol we’ve got coca cola from America’s!” Where the hell did they manage to get American soda on Christmas Day? Veneziano can’t stand the stuff so there’s no way he would have bought it. Did the Burger-bastard bring it with him? Thinking about it he saw some of England’s territories running around earlier, and they’re obviously too young to drink alcohol, so maybe his idiot brother had it bought for them?

“We were just about to start playing Two Truths and a Lie.” He doesn’t know that one. It doesn’t sound like a drinking game. His expression obviously says it all because Spain laughs. It still weirds him out how the bastard knows exactly what he’s thinking all the time.

“No one really wanted’ta run around naked the snow if we played Truth or Dare. This still seems fun though, right?” Okay forget that. Spain’s a fucking idiot. 

“How do you play?”

“Dude, it’s super easy! You go round in a circle and when it’s your turn you gotta think of two truths and one lie about yourself. Everyone has to try and guess which is the lie.” Okay that sounds easy enough. “But there’s a lot of people here, so everyone trying to guess is going to takes forever.” That’s also true. It’s already getting late. Not many bastards will get a turn.

“Big brother has an idea! Let’s play it like Truth or Dare!” All eyes are on the Pervert-bastard now as he picks up the empty soda bottle. He’s kind of interested himself, dammit. “Have one person spin the bottle, and whoever it lands on has to guess the lie from the person who spun it-“

“Oh, oh! Yeah! And if they guess it right they’re off the hook, but if they’re wrong they have to spin next!” That idiot seems way too fucking excited about this. France doesn’t look too happy at being interrupted, but he just sighs and nods. The group all agrees to the rules, and no fucking surprise America goes first.

“Okay, here we go!...What the heck dude? Do over! I want a do over!” Fuck, that bastard’s hyper. Sucks to be him though getting his own brother on the very first spin. The quiet blond probably knows a lot more about the hyperactive superpower than either of them would like. “You ready, bro?” A nod. “Okay, when I was a kid I had a pony called Petuna.” Canada makes a face like he doesn’t believe it right away. England bites back a smile, and covers his face with one of the throw pillows so no one can see. If that’s a fucking Truth he’s never gonna let the Burger-bastard live it down. “I have a friend from outer space!” That one’s obviously true. As fucking weird as it is everyone knows about the bastard’s weird alien friend. “Okay, last one: I almost died because of England’s nasty scones!” That gets a lot of mixed reactions. That’s definitely got to be the lie right? The bastard isn’t a great cook, or even a good cook, but there’s no way it’s so bad it almost killed a bastard as resilient as America...Canada doesn’t seem sure on which option to choose. There’s a lot of deliberation among the bastards watching too. England’s smile from earlier gives him doubts though. Like the bastard had remembered something precious from a long time ago. 

“It’s A...Definitely.” The blue-eyed blond taunts his brother a couple of times trying to rattle him, but the quiet nation sticks firm to his choice. America frowns. England doesn't seem too impressed either as he roughly squeezes the pillow to his chest throwing his former colony a heated glare. Probably for mentioning his ‘nasty' cooking. America spins the bottle again, and the game goes on. It’s actually pretty interesting learning things about the other nation bastard's he never knew. 

“Are you ready, Rosbif?”

“I should be the one asking you that, Frog.”

“Unfortunately for moi I have known you since we were children. There’s nothing about you I couldn’t possibly know.” England scoffs, but France seems confident. It’s true the bastards have known eachother forever. England’s going to have to think of something really good if he’s going to trick the Bearded-bastard.

“Dude! This is gonna be good.” Someone really needs to cut this bastard off. He’s definitely had too much fucking sugar.

England rolls his eyes. “America, hush.” The blue-eyed blond huffs but does as he’s told. “Alright then. I can’t swim.” France mutters to himself. Apparently that’s obviously true. “I’m allergic to caffeine.” France sighs looking bored, and Spain just pats him on the shoulder smiling. That’s obviously the lie. With the amount of tea the bastard drinks he’d be dead a hundred times over by if that were true.

“Honestly Angleterre you are making this too easy.”

“Am I now?” There’s something about that smirk on the island nation’s face that unsettles his stomach. It’s obviously a trap. There’s no fine details in his statements to try and misdirect the other nation with, but England seems far too calm. The Pervert-bastard needs to seriously be careful and think. 

“Come along, Cher.” Seriously this idiot is too over-confident. It’s obviously a trap! England rolls his eyes, and the group waits holding their breath as the suspense rises.

“Dude tell us something juicy! This is boring.”

“Bloody hell shut up a minute would you? Let me think.” The Englishman thinks for a couple of minutes while France continues to try and taunt him. “Ah, I know! When I was child I once ran away from my house to marry my childhood sweetheart.” The entire fucking room deadpans. 

That’s so obviously the fucking lie. The blond couldn't think of something more believable? As fucking romantic as that would be as a nation there’s no way the blond could just run off with some random bastard. France raised England ever since they were children, so unless the bastard he ran away with was France himself it’s got to be a lie. Either way the older blond would of known about it at some point...Wait. If that’s the lie then is the Tea-bastard really allergic to caffeine? Can nations even have allergies? France eyes the Englishman carefully looking for any give away sign that the younger nation is lying. It’s such an obvious lie though that maybe it’s actually true...Dammit. What the fuck. The cerulean eyed nation turns to Scotland for some kind of help, but the burly bastard just shrugs seemingly just as clueless as everyone else.

“Angleterre the game is two TRUTHS and a lie. You can’t have two lies.”

“I’m aware of the rules, you twit. One is a lie. The other two are true.” Well, shit. The entire room starts chatting amongst themselves. What was the first one? That England can’t swim? It seems to be pretty common knowledge that that’s true, unless the bastard has started having lessons or something then that would be the lie. Meaning the bastard ran off with some random person when he was a kid, and he’s also apparently knowingly killing himself with his daily caffeine intake. The third one has got to be the lie. Maybe the blond has consumed so much tea over the years he’s actually made himself sick from it? He seemed perfectly fine drinking his tea while the Italian has been staying with him though, and that was only a few months ago. So, if the blond got sick then it’s got to be really fucking recent. 

He’s convinced the third one has got to be the lie, but opinions in the room are divided. The snow has stopped, and the once cheery sounds of laughter and singing have been replaced by banter and heated discussion. It’s one of the nordics - the young one; Iceland, that points out the blond isn’t drinking soda like everyone else. Maybe because of the caffeine? France reaches forward grabbing the glass, and takes a sip receiving a look of indignation from the island nation as he crosses his arms. The confirmation that the younger nation really is on plain water instead of soda sends the room into another round of heated discussions. “Do hurry up, Frog. We don’t have all day.” France looks likes he’s going to have a breakdown over the possibility that he might not know as much about his former territory as he previously thought. 

“”It’s got’ta be the last one, aye? Can’t honestly believe there’d be some bampot out there daft enough ta wan’ta run away with this wee scunner.” There’s a howl of laughter from a couch over by the window, but the only thing he can see from here is an arm and a half empty bottle waving around in the air. Whatever the bastard just said England doesn’t seem to appreciate it judging by the glare on his face, so he’s probably just been insulted.

“Bloody hell. Hurry up would you?”

“Fine! I choose..the second one! There is no way Mon Ange could possibly be allergic to caffeine!” There’s a cry of outrage from many of the nations, but England’s face visibly falls at the older bastard’s answer.

“...Bollocks...” 

Silence.

“...That’s right.” 

“...Inghilterra had a childhood sweetheart? That’s so cute!” If the Englishman blushes any dark he’s going to either explode or melt. Re-spinning the bottle England huffs, and the game continues. 

At some point he drifts off getting distracted by his own thoughts. The bottle hasn’t landed on him or England again yet, and he really doesn’t care if America can do a double kickflip (whatever that is), or if Japan doesn’t like sweet foods, or food coloring, or something, the Italian wasn’t really paying attention too busy being jealous over some mystery person the island nation had liked hundreds of years ago. The game’s gotten a little boring after so long, and some nations are starting to struggle to stay awake. Despite the time thanks to his drunken nap earlier the Italian is actually wide awake.

“What about 7 Minutes in Heaven?” Che, leave it up to fucking France to come up with an idea like that. Spain doesn’t look impressed either. Looks like that fucker’s going to be sleeping alone tonight.

“Oh! I know! Let’s play Cards Agains-“

“No.” 

“Why, it’ll-“

“‘No’, America.” Shit the island nation isn’t screwing around. Pfft. So, even a superpower like America can be told ‘no’. 

“Aww c’mon dude-”

“What part of ‘no’ do you not understand? I said ‘no’, and I mean ‘no’. Pick something else.”

“Sheesh, fine. No need to be a dick about it.” The last few words are whispered so quietly the Italian almost didn’t catch it.

“What was that?” This is fucking hilarious. He’d never imagined he’d ever get to see Mr. Superpower get scolded like a little brat.

“I said ‘okay’, no need to get angry, geez. Sorry I even suggested it.” He can't believe the bastard is actually sulking. 

“...Pictionary?” The island nation seems too interested in yelling at America to hear the suggestion. Canada doesn’t really seem that bothered about being ignored though. He needs to speak up in a group of bastards like this. He’s too quiet, but apparently Veneziano somehow managed to hear the Canadian over all the shouting.

“I don’t have the game, but there’s a whiteboard in the meeting room! We could use that!” The Potato-bastard asks what the idiot means while France tries to break up England and the Burger-bastard's shouting match. They just ignore him and carry on until Scotland forcefully separates them by dragging England down to the floor backwards by his jeans. During the time he was staying with the island nation, or even when they were allies he’d never seen the man act like that. He always seemed so composed and calm. 

“We could draw pictures on the board, and try to guess what they are! We don’t have to compete and everyone gets to play at once!” There’s no way he’s playing a drawing game with fucking Veneziano. The bastard can say it’s not a competition all he wants, but he knows what the little shit gets like when it comes to showing off his art. 

“Oh! That sounds like fun!” It’s not just Hungary. Quite a few of the bastards seem to like the idea. The fire’s starting to die again, and it’s late. Fucking 2AM! Shit. He’s going to be asleep all day tomorrow - today, fuck. He should of gone home earlier when he had the chance. 

“Dude what’s the point if you don’t win?” Typical America.

“Can’t you just enjoy a game for what it is instead of always turning everything into a competition?” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” England’s stands taking a second to stretch before rubbing his eyes.

“It’s late. I have things to do tomorrow I’m not spending what’s left of the night getting dragged into another pointless argument with you. Now if you don’t mind I’m going to bed. Thank you very much, Veneziano. The party and food were both wonderful.” He doesn’t shout or even yell, but just looking at him the Italian can tell the Englishman is seething on the inside.

“Okay, good night, Inghilterra! Thank you for coming!” Once the blond has left the room and is out of earshot all eyes turn to the Burger-bastard.

“Is he alright?”

“Yeah just grumpy. His boss put him on some weird sugar-free diet cause of taxes or something.” A diet? The blond is so skinny if he turns sideways he might disappear. Why the hell would his boss think the bastard needs to go on a diet?

“Oh, it’s because of the Sugar Tax, right? I heard about it in the news.” He listens intently as Veneziano and the German-bastard talk about it. So England isn’t allowed to eat sweets anymore because of some new tax at his place? Shit. Guess that explains why the bastard was drinking water earlier. He knows the blond has a sweet tooth, so it must be really difficult for him. No fucking wonder he’s been so reclusive. If his own boss suddenly turned around and said the Italian couldn’t have pizza anymore he’d be fucking pissed off all the time too. 

The party starts winding down, and after a few games of Never Have I Ever the southern Italian decided to go to bed himself. He didn’t expect to run into England in the hallway on the way to his room. The blond left the party hours ago. Shouldn’t he be asleep by now? After spending the last two days failing to get the island nation alone the brunet was starting to think being able to spend any time with the younger man wasn’t going to happen, but now he’s finally got the blond by himself he doesn’t know what to do. He’s pretty sure his usual tactics for seducing women aren’t going to work on the bastard, and honestly the blond doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to be seduced right now anyway. Actually he looks totally fucking miserable as he stands there staring out at the snow.

“You’re still up, bastard?” Fuck. The poor nation looks like he’s about to fucking cry. He’s not prepared for this, dammit. 

“Oh, it’s you, I’ve been having trouble sleeping the last few days. I was just getting something to drink before heading back to bed.” Water again. “Well, good night.” The Englishman turns to continue on down the hall towards his room. Shit, no, wait, dammit...Think of something, stupid! Fuck!

“A-are you okay?” Fuck, that was stupid. The blond stops, and turns back toward him. He definitely doesn’t look okay. If he’s going to have any fucking chance of getting closer to the younger nation he needs to get the man to open up and talk to him. This is possibly the only chance he’ll get. He’s got to take it, dammit.

“I’m perfectly fine, but thank you for asking.” Something’s definitely off. The bastard’s missing his usual sarcastic charm, and he’s using that stuffy formal speech he’s only ever heard the younger nation use when he’s angry. Fuck, what the hell happened to make the blond so miserable? There’s no way this is just because of him being banned from sweets. Unsure of how to approach the other nation he waits for the blond to either start talking or try to leave, but he doesn’t do either. The two of them just stand there in the dark hallway in awkward silence for almost a minute before the Italian finally cracks.

“Listen bastard.” Shit that came out more aggressive than he intended. “It’s 4am, I don’t have any plans, so if you need to talk I’m not doing anything.”

“Really, thank you, but honestly I’m fine.” Dammit. As if he’s going to fucking believe that. There’s obviously something the island nation wants to get off his chest, but he’s too fucking reserved to say it. He’s doing his best here. The least the bastard could do is make it easier on him by opening up a little. He’s not in the mood to deal with this bullshit.

“I-Pardon?” Shit. 

“I- I said that’s bullshit, bastard. There’s obviously something fucking bothering you. What is it?” 

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m tired. I’ve got an early flight in a few hours, and quite frankly my business is none of your bloody business, so kindly keep your nose out.” Yeah there was nothing fucking rude about that at all. Dammit, he needs so stay calm. Take a deep breath. Fuck. Okay. He’s got the blond talking at least. Now he’s just got to keep the momentum going without losing his fucking temper in the process. The bastard better appreciate this one day, because if it was any other fucker the Italian wouldn’t have even spared them a second thought.

“It is my fucking business, you bastard. This is my place I don’t want to wake up later and see in the news that you jumped to your death off a bridge or some shit like that.” The blond looks startled by that, and then his mouth twitches. 

“Why the bloody hell would I do something like that?” 

“‘The fuck should I know? You're the one being a miserable bastard here.” Out of nowhere the Englishman starts smiling softly like he’s trying to hold himself back.

“Delicacy really isn’t your strong suit is it?” Asshole, but he’s right. It really isn't.

“Just tell me what’s bothering you already, fucker.” Shit. He didn’t mean to call the bastard that out loud. He really needs to break that habit. At least around the Englishman. England scoffs, but doesn't seem to be upset at being accidentally insulted. Why the fuck is he being so fucking difficult anyway? 

“You’re so bloody persistent!” Only because it’s the Tea-bastard. He wouldn’t give a shit if it was anyone else. Well maybe if it was Spain, but the Tomato-bastard would’ve already told him what was wrong right from the start, and not make the Italian jump through fucking hoops just to get a straight answer.

“Da che pulpito viene la predica.” He rolls his eyes, but the Englishman doesn’t seem to get the sarcasm, and throws the Italian a heated glare. Dammit.

“What was that just now?” 

“I said ‘you’re one to talk’, bastard. You’re the one being a stubborn ass here, not me.”

“Well excuse me for not feeling like having a conversation in the middle of a bloody hallway at stupid’o’clock in the morning.” Okay, that’s fair. The bastard’s starting to seem a bit more like himself again too which is good. He’s obviously pissed at the Italian for trying to pry into his business, but that’s to be expected. He has an idea. He needs to figure out what’s bothering the island nation somehow. Shit This better work, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it doesn't. 

“There’s a drinks machine in the breakfast room, bastard. We can have some hot chocolate and talk there instead.” Fuck. He knows the blond is going to try and turn him down. He’s fucking prepared for it, but he can see the temptation in the other nation’s eyes. Good. Now he just has to convince the bastard.

“I-...I really can’t. Thank you, but-“

“-Bastard who’s going to know?”

“I...” The blond finally relents taking a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll take you up on that.” Fuck. That was such hard work just to get the blond to agree to have a drink with him. Shit. The Englishman wasn’t this reserved when they were staying together. What the hell changed to make the younger nation so reclusive all of a sudden?

The trip down to the breakfast room is tense. England keeps avoiding eye contact, and the Italian can’t think of anything to say to break the awkward silence. The island nation takes a seat on the sofa by the fireplace while the brunet switches on the machine and makes their drinks. When he’s done he makes his way over passing the island nation a cardboard cup before sitting down on the opposite sofa. 

It’s becoming pretty obvious the more he talks that the real source of England’s worries is due to more than just his new ‘diet’, but he’s rambling and talking in circles, and it’s difficult trying to string everything he’s saying together. The Englishman mentioned something about some ‘ungrateful bastards’ a minute ago, but he’s talking so fast the brunet is struggling to understand a word the younger nation is saying. He doesn’t want to interrupt the blond mid-rant just in case the man become reclusive and stops talking again, but he’s fucking lost. 

“-So I did what they asked and used a more powerful spell, and then they all start bloody complaining because their flights might be cancelled, even though I bloody warned them that would probably happen! America never even bothered to say ‘thank you’! Don't you think that’s blood rude?” England crushes the empty takeout cup in his hand looking to the Italian for some kind of response.

“Um...Yeah?” He’s not sure what the hell he just agreed to, but England suddenly smiles, so he must of said the right thing.

“Come off it. I know you stopped listening to me a while ago.” Fuck. Nothing gets past this bastard does it? 

“I’m listening, bastard. I just can’t understand when you rant like that.” It’s England’s turn to look embarrassed as he suddenly goes meek and gives a quiet apology. At least the mood is more comfortable now. It seems like the blond just really needed to vent, and given the shit going on at his place at the moment it’s no fucking surprise.

“Thank you by the way.” 

“What for?”

“It’s can’t of been nice for you to sit there and listen to me go on like that. So, I’m sorry for that, but thank you. I actually feel a lot better. Thank you for the hot chocolate too. I can't tell you how much I needed that.” Oh, damn. Fuck this adorable bastard. God, he really has no fucking clue what he does to the Italian when he gets cute like that does he? It’s just the two of them alone in the breakfast room, but the blond still doesn’t seem totally relaxed. The timing's not right. 

“Don’t mention it, bastard. A-any time.” There’s obviously something else the blond wants to say, but he’s holding himself back. The conversation’s stalled, and it’s once again up to him to try and think of something to talk about while England sits there looking down at his feet. The blond looks up so quickly he’s amazed the bastard didn’t give himself whiplash.

“Bollocks! What time is it?” There’s a swear as the blond shoots up from his seat. “I didn’t realise it was this late. Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocks!” Did he miss his flight? Fuck. If he was going to be late the bastard should have fucking said something. After a couple of minutes of pacing across the floor the blond flops back down on the sofa with a huff resting his head over the back of it.

“I don’t suppose you’d feel up to grabbing a bite to eat?” Is the bastard asking him out? Fuck yes! He can’t believe it! But what about his flight? Is it too late? Fuck, he hopes so. Dammit, he needs to calm the fuck down before he makes a fool of himself. 

“Um, y-yeah sure, but what about your flight?”

“Even if I managed to get a taxi all my things are still back in the room. I’d never make it.”

“Oh.”

“Bloody hell. What do you recon my chances are of getting it rebooked for before the New Year?” For a second he doesn’t know what to say until he realises the blond is being sarcastic.

“I dunno, bastard. It’s holiday season. Maybe you should think about learning Italian? You’re going to be here a while.”

“I’ll be expecting you to teach me properly then. Not just bloody insults.” It’s so fucking nice seeing the bastard back to his usual sarcastic self again. 

“Bastard, those are the only things you need to know.” The Englishman laughs, and he melts at the sound. He fucking loves these moments with the blond. He treasures every one. The bastard just gets him.

“So, about my offer earlier? For breakfast?” Oh, shit, right. Of course he’s going to fucking go. The devil himself couldn’t stop him.

“I guess, bastard. It’s not like I’ve got anything else planned. It’s fucking early though, so nowhere’s going to be open?”

“Bloody hell. You’re right. I didn’t think about that.”

“There’s probably some leftovers in the kitchen, bastard. We could get some of those?”

“Is that okay? Won’t we get in trouble?”

“Who cares? Everyone’s asleep. Who’s going to know?” The blond suddenly laughs again.

“Is that your reasoning for everything? Blood hell. Alright, let’s do it.” Dammit, he can’t hide the stupid smile on his face. Fuck. He could say it now, ‘I like you’, but the timing is still wrong. Following the blond out into the hall he feels a bit disappointed as he looks at the other man’s back. The younger nation might of missed his flight, but he’s got to go back to his own country eventually. Dammit, he’s finally got the Englishman to himself after two days of trying to corner the bastard. He doesn’t want to let him go home so soon…His heart is pounding so loudly he can hear it in his ears, dammit. If he’s ever going to get anywhere with the other nation he needs to stop fucking hesitating, and just act! 

“He-hey, bastard?”

“Hm?”

“After we’ve eaten do you - do you want to come back to my place?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly I want to apologise for my butchered use of both Scottish, French, and Italian! I don’t speak either language, so if my usage is wrong please correct me. 
> 
> The game everyone was playing in the snow is a modified version of the classic playground game British Bulldog. The version used in the chapter is what I used to play with my family and friends during the winter with the exception of the ice wall. That was simply left over from when the nations had their snowball fight. 
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! The next chapter won’t be up until some time after the New Year! I’ll try to get it up sooner rather than later, but as always I make no promises.
> 
> I think that’s all. Thank you for reading.
> 
> Please comment and kudos! :D


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